THE COLOR RED | DALLAS WINSTON

xxvi. TOO FAST FOR TOO LONG

"HOW DO YOU KNOW ME?" She asked, struggling to swallow as fear consumed her body. Ice cubes of nerves fell down her intestines, a shiver crawling down her spine.

"That's your Mama's hair you's bleaching away." He told her, lighting a cigarette. His jacket was worn and brown with beige patches on the elbows. "Would y' mind tellin' me where she is?"

"Away. For a long time, she's ill." Charlotte replied in a low tone, writing random junk onto her pad, pretending as though she was taking an order. She still couldn't bring herself to say Alice was in the loony bin. She already didn't have a great social standing and to say her mother was crazy enough to get locked away... that meant she had to sacrifice any respect and dignity anyone could give her

"Oh yeah?"

She nodded, finally able to swallow. Her mouth was dryer than an Arabian sandle, her dress glued by sweat to her back

"Well I think you're lyin', girlie." He said, blowing smoke in her direction. "Y' see, your mama has some big money she owes me. And uh, it's late."

"I can pay you back, she's gone. Look, I don't have much money to begin with, but I'm good for money, I can pay it off over the next few months."

The man sighed, slowly opening his jacket, revealing a revolver that shined in the fading sunlight. Pristine. Not a fingerprint to be seen.

"I need that money now. And if you don't get me two thousand dollars by tomorrow at five o'clock, at this diner," He licked his teeth, chuckling with a Southern drawl, "I'll find whatever hospital Mommy's in and I'll gut her worse than your daddy."

Questions immediately began to bubble within her body and before any could be popped, the man orderd a meal as thought he conversation they had was like any other kind of small talk. She didn't have that money laying around, no one did.

As quickly as he came, he was gone. He left a note on the receipt that was just as chilling as his presence. 

        I look forward to you being able to meet expectations

                         - Heisenberg

A man named Heisenberg. A name a World War II spy would have as an alias whilst keeping tabs on Nazis. She went about work, keeping the receipt in her apron pocket. After her shift was over, Charlotte went to a dingy old payphone, careful to make sure no one lurked nearby. 

"Hello?" The grogginess of Dallas's New York accent was evident as he answered. Whether he was asleep or hadn't slept in days was unclear, but it didn't matter now. Nothing did.

"It's me, Charlotte."

"Lottie girl." He smiled, almost menacingly, "I thought the man was supposed to call after a hookup."

"I don't have time to flirt, Dally." She gritted her teeth, "Do you have any weed leftover?"

"Yeah, how come?"

"Sell it."

He laughed hysterically, oblivious to the urgency . "You're a real funny girl, Charl-"

"I mean it. Sell it. Sell it all. I don't have much time to explain. Sell it now. Meet me at the thrift store at Wilson Avenue, 4 o'clock."

The phone cut out in the nick of time. Charlotte rushed back to Brooklynn's house, ignoring her friends' parents' warm greetings and warmer cookies. Fucking simpletons. 

She quickly packed all her art supplies away, hardly taking a moment to reminisce on how much these things meant to her. To think about how they sculpted the structures of who she was and painted the colors of her personality, the highs and lows. Blacks and purples, browns and reds.