Goldilocks Forever

Chapter 8

Las Vegas, Nevada

February 2006

She woke on the bathroom floor for the third time that month. The cold tiles seared her tired bones. When she opened her eyes all she could see was the bottom of the cabinet and mildewy grout lines. She rose gradually and stood in front of the mirror. Her hand hesitated at the light switch.

Maybe this time wouldn't be as bad as she thought.

She flicked on the lights and took in her face in the mirror. Her eyes were wide, horrified, and the only clean part of her. Her face was spattered and smeared with blood and various unidentifiable particles of food. She looked liked she just came from a buffet of gore. Even her hair was matted and streaked. Blood made it darker.

Her clothes were similarly soiled, but her hands were the worst. Dirt and blood collected under her fingernails in a macabre manicure. Unable to stomach anymore, she turned the lights off, but not before she noticed something new.

On the floor, lying between the drawers and the toilet, was a gun.

She swiped at the roll of toilet paper hanging on the wall and tore off a stream of sheets. Her breath came faster; her heart galloped in her chest.  She wadded the paper and used it to pick up the gun by its black grip. It dangled from her fingers as she looked around for a place to stash it.

The toilet? Flush it!

Instead she pulled the lid off the back of the toilet and dropped the gun into the tank with a liquid plop. She flushed the paper, and crouched to the floor to open the cabinet and begin her cleaning ritual.

Disinfecting wipes and sprays erased the visual evidence of her mess. Once the bathroom was clean, she stripped out of her soiled clothes, deposited them into one of the black trash bags she kept handy in the drawer, and walked into the shower.

Under the stream of hot water, she scrubbed at her skin until it was bright pink. When she felt she might be clean, she scrubbed some more and watched as the blood and dirt and who-knows-what-else ran off her body and dissolved with the water into the drain. Then she herself dissolved into a sinking fetal form on the shower floor, her arms wrapped about her legs, her face tucked into her knees.

She let out a sob, a wail, and then bawled as the water fell on her back. A reverberating thought came: Today might be the day I die.

That brought her relief, even though lately she had begun to give up hope that she might die. Thinking it every day certainly didn't make it true. It had been a long time, several years it seemed, and she was still alive.

Her body shook and her breath came in ragged gulps. There was only one thing she should do in the more likely event that she was going to go on living. The old man would want his rent money soon. He never noticed her late night comings and goings or the tracks of blood and dirt she sometimes left in the stairway. The thought of sleeping on the streets again urged her up and forward.

As she left her apartment, she saw a few partial shoe prints on the rug at her door, but that was it. She flipped the rug over. In the early morning darkness, she strode like a doe crossing an open field. Occasionally, a group of drunken tourists ambled past her, laughing and carrying football-shaped mugs of beer. They have no idea how lucky they are. They at least have alcohol to numb the pain.

She quickly admonished herself. She never would have thought that before, but those were the days when just one glass of wine would have her walking in a swerve. Those days were long, long gone.

A pair of headlights fell over her. She turned her head to see a large gold-brown Cadillac, a boat probably as old as she was, rumbling slowly behind her. She straightened her back and quickened her pace.