Another day, another dollar, another fix. Strolling the streets of Demaitre, now as she was, open to the world, seemingly niave, it wasn’t hard. You could find the high-end, which was worth the price, the mid-level end, which was mediocre, and if you were really in a financial crunch (and who isn’t?) there was the low-end. You did your thing with the low-end, and you prayed you didn’t die.
Ah yes. Religion was found out there in the thicket of the depression. The land of the Alley, where the homeless truly ran the streets. Prayer. You prayed you wouldn’t get robbed on your way to the store. You prayed you wouldn’t disappear on your way home. For Xylia, she only prayed she could scrape enough together for another night in the flea-bag roach motel and one more fix.
”Name your poison, Sweetheart.”
The old and the young alike slung dope like it was butterscotch drops in your gramma's purse, other than that, the other constant, was liquor.
Water might be a bit stagnant, but baby, you could get your 40 ounce with no problem. And it never tasted as sweet as it did then. And for those with more acquired tastes, any establishment in town would have your vodka, tequila, or whatever else ya needed.
With fingers curled around the neck of a bottle, and a sigh, Xylia grunted as she swallowed back another swig from the bottle of piss-warm beer. She had peeled the label away hours ago, to alleviate a bit of boredom, and remnants of silver and white remained stuck to the glue base.
The other vagrants, the diseased remnants of what life once was, said that the city’s alley ways were worse before. The dead would lay in the street for weeks, before someone would scrape them off the street.
Xylia wasn’t surprised. Did they think that this only happened here? Or did they have some bit of hope that if they could free themselves of the clutch the bitch known as Demaitre had them in, that it would be happy days and sunshine elsewhere?
Xylia watched the rest of the world a moment.
Poor fools, she thought as she stopped near a couple. The woman was clutching a postcard from Hawaii. It showed a sunny day, white sand, and a sunbather in an orange bathing suit, her toes dangling in the crystalline water.
A happier time, possibly, but not now.
The woman seemed more interested in what was written on the reverse side, rather than the false advertisement on the front. A single tear rolled down her left cheek, as Xylia watched on, though her body shook.
No more tears left to cry, Xylia surmised, and pulled the loaf of bread from her bag. So much for dinner tonight, she thought with a sigh, as she moved closer to the couple. She nodded a greeting, and stooped to a crouch. She ran her thumb down the woman’s cheek, smudging dirt away, and gave a brief smile.
”It won’t rain all the time,” She told the woman. ”The Sky won’t fall forever, and though the night seems long, your tears won’t fall forever.” She spoke the words to a song she liked from her favorite movie. It seemed fitting here.
The woman smiled up at her, and Xylia stood, handing the bread to the woman’s companion. She turned and walked down the street a bit, before looking back just once. She saw the couple hungrily devouring the bread, and sharing bits with a skinny dog that had come out from behind them.
Her thoughts were interrupted with the growl of her stomach, and she patted the cotton covered flesh. ”Not tonight. She smiled despite herself. She had done a good deed, and in moments would negate the fact, with another bump of coke, and a couple cc’s of heroin. A cocktail of death, and she prayed it would work this time.
