Thursday, February 26, 2009

gas station

The night I went over to your house, I was in pain.
My torso was bleeding and my leg felt as if it was about to break off. I poured the rest of my gin into the hole in my stomach while I was in the car, on my way there. I screamed out, hoping the feeling would never give in. The alcohol rumbled around my stomach like a hurricane and then filtered down, disapearing into my scarce, white legs. Tears burned down my cheek and I smiled, thanking God for creating such a powerful remedy.
I pulled my car into the gas station for some cigarettes, as I was now drunk as ever. A rich old woman pumping her gas shrieked at the sight of me and I was startled. A diamond rolled down her cheek. It soon turned to ice and crumbled away in bitter winter. She ran up in her high heels, knocked into me, and begged me to tell her why. I nearly fell over as I heard another crack in my leg. I told her, bluntly, that she was lost and should get the fuck away from me. She smacked me in the face as if I were her menace child and told me I was horribly selfish. The hand print blended in with the splattered red, already on my face. I laughed nervously as she got blood on her palms and sharp nails. She gasped again and turned away sobbing. I asked her what her name was and she told me it was Paris Balmain.
She had long and bright red hair that matched her black lined lips. She was cliche, old hollywood.
Her coat was huge and made of real furr.
She was wearing a champagne tinted gown underneath all the animal remains, that barely covered her aging purple skin. She looked like an alien who was lost her way to Mars.
She gave me one last look, got on her knees, and started rubbing the long diamond necklace that was hanging in between her fake tits.
I could tell she was a mother and a grandmother. A woman who was worse off than I was, even in my physical and mental state. She completely lost her mind. She realized there was feeling, past the saphires, expensive wine and getting fucked by the pool boy on her husband's silk sheets, swearing to God.

I could read her mind like a book.

I stumbled into the gas station, wandering aimlessly through the isles. I didn't know what I was looking for. My eyesight flickering on and off from the horrible smell of gasoline and rich bitch perfume that was still hanging in the air. I grabbed some sunglasses and put them on to keep my eyes in my sockets. My eyelashes were falling out. I was worried my eyes were next to go.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to get the blood out of my hair. I wanted to plug up the hole in my stomach. A wine bottle cork would do the trick, I thought to myself.

I was getting thinner by the minute. My skin was turning purple. I would look like Paris Balmain, if this got worse.
I stumbled up to the clerk and begged him to give me his t-shirt and a pack of cigarettes. He looked at me with his dark eyes and jittery hands, and trembling. I realized that I was scaring him like I did the rich bitch outside. I began to take his shirt off of him myself. I asked him if he wanted my money and he looked at me like he had never been touched by a woman all his life. I reached into my pocket to put my cigarettes away and I crouched away, to not startle him any longer.

Because we both knew I was something else.

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