𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
Whether it manifested as a fleeting specter, casting its ephemeral shadow across the girl's dreams, awakening her on that least likely of mornings, remained forever veiled, destined to...
Later that night, after Guns had gone to Sunset, Linda sat on the couch at Hell House watching Natasha who was getting ready for a shift.
-You think I'd look good with jet-black hair?-Natasha asked while she was making the final touches to her hairstyle.
-It's never done me much good.
-This cunt think she's going to snake him.-Natasha said to the small mirror with one big crack in the middle, zipping her top.-That's what she thinks.
Natasha has been having suspicions that her coworker had set her sights on Slash. With each passing day, she found herself scrutinizing every interaction, every fleeting touch, searching for signs of him being a cheater. Her thoughts spiraled into a whirlwind of sick jealousy, threatening to consume her whole.
-You're just being paranoid.
-Yeah, that's what he says.-she snorted
Natasha's mouth twisted into something not quite a smile, her lace-up high heel on the sofa, she was tying the straps.
-Gonna report that puta to the INS. Kick her ass back to wherever the fuck she belongs.-she posed in front of the mirror, lowered the zipper of her top an inch, so it showed the well between her breasts. She bared her teeth and wiped them with her finger. She slung her purse onto her shoulder and placed her palm on the doorknob. She turned to face Linda, who eyed her sceptically.-Don't look at me like that. I've got everything under control.
The truth was she had nothing under control. Her complexion had faded to a sickly pallor, her skin stretched taut over bones that protruded like jagged peaks beneath a thin veil; the only thing she would consume were hectoliters of Coke Zero and vodka. Her world reduced to a relentless cycle of drug withdrawals and desperate attempts to numb the pain. Half of her waking hours were spent chasing the next fix, the other half lost to a haze. Linda watched as Natasha's hands shook uncontrollably, her fingers fumbling as she prepared another dose. Despite her outward appearance of frailty, Natasha clung to the illusion of control with a tenacity that bordered on delusion. She insisted that her addiction was merely a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. Linda would plead with Natasha to seek help, to break free from the chains that bound her to this life of endless oblivion. But Natasha's addiction had become her only universe.
-Tschüss. And don't lock the door behind you.-she winked at Linda and went out.
Linda didn't leave much later either. She was walking toward Santa Monica. The road was wide and white in the moonlight, the darkness of mountains darker than the sky, a perfect vanishing point of the road and the telephone poles. She imagined she could follow that road through the vanishing point and come out somewhere else entirely.
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Sofiya wrote to Linda that she had poems in Kenyon Review and in the all-poetry issue of Zyzyva. Linda went to Book Soup on the Strip, and bought both of them. There was a long poem about running, that was a big part of her day. When she wasn't writing she was running in East River Park, fifty, a hundred miles a week.
