Edge of the Ravine

26

Chapter Twenty-Six

When we first got settled in our apartment, things were hard. Neither of us had a job to start out with. Nowhere in our neighborhood was hiring. Karen's career went from professional shots with her sister's camera to cell-phone selfies. And to top it all off, our landlord was a misogynistic pig who would have gladly traded Karen's bodily favors in place of half the rent.

Somehow, though I was the worst pessimist I'd ever encountered, I still thought we'd rebound. That, once we got real jobs, things would start to turn around for us both. Karen would get discovered and I would at least earn my own way as far as we went. Though I didn't realize it right away, my feelings for my roommate were developing far beyond their initial range. And though they were not romantic in the least, they at least surpassed our semi-distant strangers-living-together-out-of-survival relationship. We were now bordering on friendship and I did want the best for her.

Not at the expense of myself.

Eventually, I did find a job. Being only eighteen, I couldn't exactly bartend at the local pub. But I was a decent cook and didn't complain about washing dishes all day. For that reason alone, I found myself sweating the entire night away in the roasting kitchen, soap or grease splattered across my apron in turns. And though I often felt bone tired and irritable when I crawled through the apartment door every morning, at least it kept a roof over our heads and food in the refrigerator.

That wasn't all it was doing.

Three months after our big move, Karen bit rock bottom. Her savings were used up and she had lost faith in her dreams. Alcohol began to be a common place throughout the apartment, even stashed beneath her mattresses. More than that, traces of white powder also seemed common place, along with a number of needless hidden in with her laundry.

I didn't bother to confront her about it. She was often too high or drunk to put up much of a fight, anyway. And if I was desperate enough, I was sure it wouldn't take much for me to follow her on her downward spiral. Especially knowing the secret she tried so strategically to hide from me: she'd turned to the body trade after all.

The only way I knew for sure was when I got a stomach bug and had to be sent home early from work. On my walk home through the cold, lonely streets, I barely caught a glimpse of my roommate beneath a stop light. Barely any clothing covered her body. Her top had shapes cut out of the sides so that her skin was clearly exposed. The black, lace bra was clearly visible and the thigh-length pencil skirt she had bought for job interviews was wrapped too tightly around her waist and had a slit right up to her hip. Averting my eyes, I waited until she'd climbed into the gray Buick before continuing to our apartment. That night, she came home with an illegal prescription, a pint of vodka, and her heels in her hand.

I used to ask myself why I didn't say or do something. Anything that would have helped in some way. But then I have to be honest with myself. In many ways, I just didn't care enough to stop her.