She's Junkie Cold

She’s junkie cold.

In here, his apartment, she sits on the leopard rug under the music cabinet. Faux-crocodile boots and tiger-print skirt. Her face is a trainwreck, all jagged edges.

She waits for him while the bastard waits for death, his body swallowed by snow, dying by inches.

Why is it so cold? She is as close to the stove as human endurance may allow, but snowflakes still form in the bones.

She wants to think she loves him but he hits her too hard. She loves the fentanyl. Even the thought of it gives her warmth followed by want. That patch getting slapped on her skin right now, it's enough to make her down below wake from death.

God, please, a cigarette. Anything to stop thinking. But he doesn't smoke because he's a doctor and he knows no joy.

The town doctor. What a catch!

Every time she glances at the clock it lies to her. Barely five minutes passed? This is a century of hell.

Why the hell isn't he home yet?

She wasn't cut out to be a housewife. Chores drained her, the silence maddening. He would come home to dirty dishes and dusty floors. Then he would beat her, for mother didn't know his wrath.

She wishes she could arch her back so far it would crack. End this nonsense. Instead she writhes and mews on the rug, like a poisoned rat.

When he arrived home she learnt to wear the costume. He didn't want a wife. He wanted a slut. A Moscow slut. But the weather wasn't made for streetwalkers, so she provided.

To please him.

Fuck him! She pushes herself off the rug and runs over to the cabinet, starts rooting through his record collection. There has to be something somewhere. She will find the patches. She'll slap on a dozen at once, and doze forever.

The patches made it easier. He was right. Getting fucked out of your head on fentanyl solved many domestic issues. Everything seemed profound, from the angle of sunlight off the vacuum cleaner to squeaking of the dishrag against glass.

But now the bastard left, and she empties his shitty records all over the shop. She picks up a James Brown vinyl and throws it against the wall, watches it shatter. No joy in it, she knows she must clean it. A weeping fit consumes her.

Fuck, fuck it all, fuck them all, and above all, fuck her. Fuck her for getting herself into this.

She must have done something.

But then.

An aurora, bright as sunlight, beyond the window.

She approaches it, watching the strange dance of energy across the dark sky.

Fucked on fentanyl, and not one patch.

She clasps her hands together, and prays to Him, like she is a child again.

Please God, please,

Whatever you must do, do it,

But don't let me get the junkie cold again.