Junk Love.

nineteen.

Mel possesses many talents but never the courage to write her own ending. Arming herself with an artful and cunning smile, like a loaded gun, she plowed through everything bad with an unshakable resolve. Never seeking good while tricking herself with her own strength until she became a paper cut-out version of herself.

Her relationship with Calvin is an abyss she willingly walks into again and again. Not just for a fix in drugs but for a conviction her life is meant to remain this way. A morbid web she's encased in coaxing the venomous spider to befriend rather than devour.

After the train wreck of visiting Carter in jail, she should have known the last place she needed to be was in the arms of her unrequited lover. Her desperation for a hit to alleviate the quivers outweighed all logic. Once again she discarded her own emotions like week old trash.

She'd been told that, to be a strong independent woman, she wouldn't need a man. But above all she's an addict craving anything to make her feel orbital in this otherwise static atmosphere. Before any drug she'll crave the temptation and warmth of another's touch. Which has done her more harm than drags of heroin and speed will.

It takes Mel all day to travel from the slums to the neighborhood she'd once called home. A long walk but not in vain. Two letters from Carter lay waiting in the mailbox at the church. Seeing her name written in his slanted handwriting makes her body hum.

Excitement laces through her like a renewed hit numbing her fingers. She saves his words for later, folding the letters in the pocket opposite from where she's tucked her foil. The sun has faded into burnt orange. She hustles back toward Chinatown with salmon hues of sunset coloring her newly bleached hair.

☯

Stowed away in the attic, Mel sits on the red silk mat bathed in skipping candlelight. She has to squint at the creased paper to read what Carter wrote her.

Baby,

You still have a way of making me nervous with your smile. Like I am the luckiest man alive and undeserving of your grace. When I saw you this week I trembled with desire. Recalling your fragrant continent and the way your body tastes.You are my lioness. My only. Your love is fierce intense and bold. Like an evening in Cairo. You are my atlas. If not for you I'd surely be forgotten. Lost. My only infinite love.

Before Mel can properly digest his heartfelt sentiments the door opens with a groan. Panicked, she scrambles to fold the letter back into her sweater. But, once she glances over her shoulder, there's no one to be seen. Perhaps one of the kitchen workers have wandered further back to the storage room.

"Nian?"

Her voice is met with vacancy. Suddenly the shadows feel menacing. Surely the old man would answer her. Even if his response were a scowl and a lowly muttered Mandarin insult. Grouch is his default setting.

Narrowing her eyes, Mel peers into the darkness wishing she could see further. "Nian?" An undeniable quiver afflicts her tone this time.

"Guess again, Jípǔ sài rén."

The voice is treacherous in its familiarity. It quakes her icy heart sending shards spearing through her body until she's numb with cold. Dalton. Only he can make gypsy in his native language sound like both a caress and a hiss from a hooded cobra.

On her feet in an instant Mel spins around. Seeking him out before he can get closer. "What do you want from me?"

"What does anyone ever want from a whore?" His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Echoing in the small space like a demon speaking straight from the underworld.

Stealthy in the darkness he lunges. Before she can accurately trace his rapid footfalls pounding on the floorboards he already has a vice like grip round her neck. Her gasp is strangled short when his sinewy fingers dig into her flesh.

"You cost me everything." The low hiss of his voice in her ear is as acidic as the liquor on his breath. "Your little pyro stunt ruined me, my business. Now I'm back under my miserable Father's thumb. Because of you Jìnǚ."

Mel had only been trying to make fried chicken and the oil had erupted into a raging fire dragon. Her arms had been badly burned -- the red discoloring still marks on her wrists -- but he never believed her. Nor would he ever. Especially in this state. When he got drunk Dalton always hit harder and yelled louder.

"I'm sorry." His grasp is crushing and her words are cut off to a miserable rasping as he throttles.

"Just a little street whore." Tears drip down her cheeks when he grinds his solid body against her back, laughing capriciously. "You know what happens to street whores don't you, Mel?"

All too well. His grip is crippling. She can't speak as she struggles to suck in each pathetic breath. Stinging tears prick from Mel's eyes when she squeezes them shut.

Grunting, low and primal, Dalton yanks on her sweater until the buttons pop from the stitching raining down onto the floor like pebbles. It's not the first time and it won't be the last some sick drunk bastard takes advantage of her.

Dalton stops strangling only to grip her shoulder, whirling her around fast to face him. She hates the twisted smile he gets when she cries. Once she'd loved him, pleaded, but he'd treated her like a toy. They all do eventually. Just a stupid street whore nothing more or less.

Winding back his beefy arm Dalton smacks her, hard. Hard enough to send her stumbling backward. Hard enough to send sparklers of stars spotting her vision. Cupping her hand over her cheek, Mel faces him defiant till her last breath. Dalton sneers at her display of confidence spitting directly in her face.

Refusing to back down she faces him. Looking into his slanted devil eyes directly until she's peering into the gates of hell. "I hate you."

For a second she thinks she sees his face melt into an expression of befuddlement. This isn't the only instance she's stood up to him. But that was before she knew the consequences. Commonly, Dalton masks every emotion with violence. Even when he'd been fucking her, and cooing he loved her back, he'd had his hand around her throat daring her to try and breathe more than he wanted her to.

Mel is prepared for the second punch. Thought she could take it. The blow impacts directly over the first, taking her breath away. She's sent reeling on the floor. Dalton spits again then marches away clearly discontented at her rebellion. It isn't so much fun to play when the toy refuses to cooperate.

She holds her breath until his footsteps fade completely and the door clicks shut behind him. Unable to find the strength to stand, she sobs silently until her whole body tremors. Her ripped clothes hang awkwardly off her stick limbs, her left breast exposed. Stupid Jìnǚ. Mel chastises herself. What did you think was going to happen coming back here? That he wouldn't find you?

After scrubbing spit and tears from her raw cheeks she tugs on her clothes until she's covered again. Then she curls up in a ball, still shaking in a fit, but dry eyed. Time becomes meaningless in a vortex of hurt. Mel doesn't know how long she remains that way before finally drifting asleep.

☯