skonen_blades (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skonen_blades) wrote2008-02-19 11:17 pm
skonen_blades) wrote2008-02-19 11:17 pm
Burgundy Copyright
Her name was Burgundy Copyright.
Witchdoctor Doom was in the room with her. He lifted her summer dress up past her trembling thighs. The more control she tried to exert on her body, the less control she had. She had capitalist thoughts. It was dirty light that struggled to get into the room. Greasy, orange curtains filtered it cigarette-yellow before it splashed on the red shag carpet.
Too hot. Too hot. Burgundy felt like a bug.
Ugly bedside lamp. Ugly wood paneling walls. Ugly man in front of her. Still, the drugs wouldn’t let her sweat.
The clanking of the struggling air conditioner banged a tattoo that drowned out the world outside.
Witch’s strong hands kneaded her flesh like a housewife testing produce in a grocery store.
Burgundy was on parole. This was too far. This was too much. She couldn’t leave, though.
In prison, the world outside had seemed like a kind of heaven. Nothing could be as bad as prison, she had thought. All the fighting, the triads, the sides, the long nights. She saw people die right in front of her. Twitching like fish on a bank and spilling surprising amounts of blood. As rough as her life had been before that, she had never seen a person die. She’d seen bodies, but not death.
On the outside and on parole. So what? Being pretty, every guy she met saw an opportunity. She was a failed person. Life was different here. People felt no need to be nice to her or to treat her with respect once they found out she was an ex-con.
Witchdoctor stood up, his ribs poking through his thin skin. Heat came off him. He was high and dry. Deep, fast-heart breathing and barely capable of speech. He shuddered at every touch. So did Burgundy.
The money was on the table. She was violating her conditions by having sex for money while on drugs.
She felt exuberantly indifferent. A born-loser freefall acceptance of fate.
Hard life. Hard landing.
tags
Witchdoctor Doom was in the room with her. He lifted her summer dress up past her trembling thighs. The more control she tried to exert on her body, the less control she had. She had capitalist thoughts. It was dirty light that struggled to get into the room. Greasy, orange curtains filtered it cigarette-yellow before it splashed on the red shag carpet.
Too hot. Too hot. Burgundy felt like a bug.
Ugly bedside lamp. Ugly wood paneling walls. Ugly man in front of her. Still, the drugs wouldn’t let her sweat.
The clanking of the struggling air conditioner banged a tattoo that drowned out the world outside.
Witch’s strong hands kneaded her flesh like a housewife testing produce in a grocery store.
Burgundy was on parole. This was too far. This was too much. She couldn’t leave, though.
In prison, the world outside had seemed like a kind of heaven. Nothing could be as bad as prison, she had thought. All the fighting, the triads, the sides, the long nights. She saw people die right in front of her. Twitching like fish on a bank and spilling surprising amounts of blood. As rough as her life had been before that, she had never seen a person die. She’d seen bodies, but not death.
On the outside and on parole. So what? Being pretty, every guy she met saw an opportunity. She was a failed person. Life was different here. People felt no need to be nice to her or to treat her with respect once they found out she was an ex-con.
Witchdoctor stood up, his ribs poking through his thin skin. Heat came off him. He was high and dry. Deep, fast-heart breathing and barely capable of speech. He shuddered at every touch. So did Burgundy.
The money was on the table. She was violating her conditions by having sex for money while on drugs.
She felt exuberantly indifferent. A born-loser freefall acceptance of fate.
Hard life. Hard landing.
tags