she knew they were scarlet. Her breathing grew short and jerky. Her eyeballs were getting hot too, and felt like they were going to melt right out of their sockets. She knew they were bloodshot, even in the darkness. She was going to die here, underground. In a fucking storage room. In the dark. With no heroin. She should have let the lion eat her, or let T-Bone and the others scrag her ass. That would have been quicker, at least. She knew she had at least one bullet left.
She thought about the baby.
(It wasn't my baby)
The hot flashes passed, and the chills returned; intense and biting. She knew that the drowsiness would follow soon. She usually slept for eleven or twelve hours when it happened. What fresh horrors of the withdrawal came after that, Frankie didn't know. She'd never made it that far. There was always another dick to be sucked by then; to be milked for ten or twenty bucks that could be converted to junk with ease. She yawned, deep and long.
Sleep. That sounded good.
93 Frankie had no intention of waking up again.
She put the barrel of the gun against her head, and then thought better of it. What if she missed? She'd heard about that. Attempted suicides where the bullet traveled around the brain like a car on a racetrack, horribly maiming the victim but not bringing the desired effect. She yawned again, and stifled it by placing the gun in her mouth. She tasted oil and cordite, and found she preferred them to the man-sweat of the cocks that had been there before it.
She steeled herself and then, before she lost her nerve, squeezed the trigger.
Page 71
There was an empty click.
She screamed in frustration and flung the pistol into the darkness. There was a metallic clang as something fell over. Frankie sobbed, and the tears did not stop.
She was still crying when she passed out.
When she awoke she wasn't aware of it at first. Lying in darkness, she opened her crusted eyes and saw more of the same.
The cramps seized her almost immediately, and she barely had time to turn her head before the vomiting began. Her stomach was empty, and turned itself inside out, savagely heaving what little fluid she had left. Warm bile spattered her shirt and clung to her hair. She was sweating profusely, and her ragged clothes quickly became drenched. There was a brief respite, and then another cramp stabbed her abdomen. Her bowels erupted, and everything below her waist grew warm and wet. The smell made her gag, causing another round of dryheaves. She groaned, biting through her lip as a third wave of cramps set in. Blood trickled down the back of her throat,
94 and was thrown up a second later.
She cried out, struggling to sit up. Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging them. Her muscles began to twitch, legs convulsing as she 'kicked the habit.' Each jerk sent a bolt of pain through her bones, rocketing up her spine where it exploded into the center of her brain. She was still moaning, eyes clenched tightly shut, when the doorknob turned. Frankie gasped, fear overriding the lack of opiate her body was protesting. The door inched open, revealing a flickering torch.
"You're not one of them." The voice was deep and quiet, and spoke matter-of-factly.
Trembling, Frankie squinted, trying to see beyond the light. The pain grew worse and she fought back a scream as another spell of watery diarrhea hit.
"I've seen this before," the voice whispered. "I guess we'll have to wait, won't we?"
The door closed softly and then Frankie was alone with the fire and the voice.
Page 72
"Wh-what are you?" she whimpered.
"I am a Troll."
She laughed; a fragile, wilting sound that was interrupted by a hacking cough.
"Don't suppose you happen to have any methadone on you?" she asked weakly. Then she traded the light of the torch for the darkness behind her eyelids, and she knew no more.
Grinding her teeth. Hard. Hard enough to feel them wiggle, to feel the blood well up between decaying tooth and receding gum line. Sweat oozes from her
She thought about the baby.
(It wasn't my baby)
The hot flashes passed, and the chills returned; intense and biting. She knew that the drowsiness would follow soon. She usually slept for eleven or twelve hours when it happened. What fresh horrors of the withdrawal came after that, Frankie didn't know. She'd never made it that far. There was always another dick to be sucked by then; to be milked for ten or twenty bucks that could be converted to junk with ease. She yawned, deep and long.
Sleep. That sounded good.
93 Frankie had no intention of waking up again.
She put the barrel of the gun against her head, and then thought better of it. What if she missed? She'd heard about that. Attempted suicides where the bullet traveled around the brain like a car on a racetrack, horribly maiming the victim but not bringing the desired effect. She yawned again, and stifled it by placing the gun in her mouth. She tasted oil and cordite, and found she preferred them to the man-sweat of the cocks that had been there before it.
She steeled herself and then, before she lost her nerve, squeezed the trigger.
Page 71
There was an empty click.
She screamed in frustration and flung the pistol into the darkness. There was a metallic clang as something fell over. Frankie sobbed, and the tears did not stop.
She was still crying when she passed out.
When she awoke she wasn't aware of it at first. Lying in darkness, she opened her crusted eyes and saw more of the same.
The cramps seized her almost immediately, and she barely had time to turn her head before the vomiting began. Her stomach was empty, and turned itself inside out, savagely heaving what little fluid she had left. Warm bile spattered her shirt and clung to her hair. She was sweating profusely, and her ragged clothes quickly became drenched. There was a brief respite, and then another cramp stabbed her abdomen. Her bowels erupted, and everything below her waist grew warm and wet. The smell made her gag, causing another round of dryheaves. She groaned, biting through her lip as a third wave of cramps set in. Blood trickled down the back of her throat,
94 and was thrown up a second later.
She cried out, struggling to sit up. Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging them. Her muscles began to twitch, legs convulsing as she 'kicked the habit.' Each jerk sent a bolt of pain through her bones, rocketing up her spine where it exploded into the center of her brain. She was still moaning, eyes clenched tightly shut, when the doorknob turned. Frankie gasped, fear overriding the lack of opiate her body was protesting. The door inched open, revealing a flickering torch.
"You're not one of them." The voice was deep and quiet, and spoke matter-of-factly.
Trembling, Frankie squinted, trying to see beyond the light. The pain grew worse and she fought back a scream as another spell of watery diarrhea hit.
"I've seen this before," the voice whispered. "I guess we'll have to wait, won't we?"
The door closed softly and then Frankie was alone with the fire and the voice.
Page 72
"Wh-what are you?" she whimpered.
"I am a Troll."
She laughed; a fragile, wilting sound that was interrupted by a hacking cough.
"Don't suppose you happen to have any methadone on you?" she asked weakly. Then she traded the light of the torch for the darkness behind her eyelids, and she knew no more.
Grinding her teeth. Hard. Hard enough to feel them wiggle, to feel the blood well up between decaying tooth and receding gum line. Sweat oozes from her
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