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Pardon the Title, but, FTW.

I was running through some trees in the early morning hours, the fresh air hitting my face. The breathe escaping my mouth in wisps of condensed fog. Sweat going cold on my forehead.  My cheeks, red and hot, and it hit me like a blow in the stomach.  I felt rebellious. Not having had a cigarette in 3 days. Having woken up early, eaten a good breakfast and throwing on my joggers. Having not watched that damn box we call television in months.  I suddenly became angry. The blood pulsing through my body. Giving me life. The heart beat loud, yelling. Growling. An animal inside.  No longer in hibernation. This bear, stretching out and roaring in hunger. Suddenly aware of this artificial beat, a pulse. A pulse, that I had been deceived into thinking was a natural part of me, and my organic self suddenly came to life, and kicked its ass.

 My auto pilot shut down….Had I been dead all this time? My life suddenly felt stale in my memories. Like I had been doing something else all this time and hadn’t realized it. What had I been doing? Where had my soul gone? Where had my mind been?

Making decisions that weren’t even my own. Thinking thoughts that just surfaced from some subconscious line of knowing plunged into me by the world.  Eyes that didn’t belong to me.  A mind dulled out by society and it’s ever loud opinions and needs. A large, whining, lying machine. This lusty robotic voice from the T.V and radio speakers. Pushed down my throat by commercials, ads, products, humans, politicians, books, the damn side walk even. Malls, stores, CD’s, movies, and bill boards. I’m not just talking about commercialism and consumerism; I’m talking about a life force, built over by hundreds of years, brought to a living stinking breath by money, greed and deceit.  I realized I had eaten it up, like a plump salty buffet… just like everybody else. Finding myself, wanting nothing more than to dip out on this whole scene, and move to a quiet place where people were still alive. Were ever that is.

I realized I had spent my life up until now, pinning away at shit that doesn’t matter. Trying to fit into something I didn’t even want to be a part of. I realized, I had rebelled against that exact fact, by doing drugs and drinking for over a decade. Smoking poison filled cigarettes over 20 times a day and eating mounds of processed food to fill a void.  Pouring acidic liquors down my throat, to numb the truth.  Knowing that, I realized even further, that this in itself, was also bullshit. Did I really spend over a decade of my life, running from the thing I hated, by falling deeper into the cracks of yet another matrix of society?

This is what finally made me feel rebellious in the way I should?  

 Removing myself from the modern world’s most cunning trap…by CHOOSING to say, NO! I can make my own choices despite all this loud noise. Popularity doesn’t get my vote anymore. Neither does worldly acceptance. That what the world has to offer as condolence is a load of plastic empty trash.  Never, EVER, satisfying me.That my shoes, and clothes, and house, and car, and precious belonging’s will all turn to dust one day..and I would look back on this struggle to provide myself with it all, was meaningless in its saddest form.  I realized, that I had tricked myself into thinking, that this kind of goal in life, the one society has made very clear to us all, truly made me feel safe. And, in reality, I was just deceived, down to very last detail.  That no drug, or stash of bills, or lover, or fancy trip would ever fulfill me. No party, or over flowing bar scene, filled with sad girls and insecure men will ever be attractive to me, ever again. That being thin, and beautiful…really didn’t mean much either? No. It doesn’t. None of it does. It just feels good for a while. And  that too one day, will all turn to dust as well. So, maybe this is depressing to you, it isn’t to me. To say the great “F**k this!!!” feels amazing.

Now I can live. I can stand with Jesus, aware, knowing nothing is a guarantee and I can LIVE. Flesh. Love. Passion. Blood. Breath. Purpose. Now I can be…me. Hey, what’s up…nice to meet you!! On my own terms this time.

FTW.

Drunk Cigarette Break.

It is inbred in us that we have to do exceptional things for God: but we have not. We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things, to be holy in mean streets, among mean people, and this is not learned in five minutes"
-Oswald Chambers

By the end of this blog, you'll understand why I chose to begin with this quote.
So bare with me as I write.
Five years ago, I was attacked downtown while leaving a bar.
I had ran into my ex while having a drunken cigarette break.
The ex, we all have, the one we know we're not supposed to talk to.
The one, you should run down the street screaming from.
The one, most girls, don't have the strength to say no to...and in the end, we're all in the same damn place.
Feeling like a chump, rejected and pathetic.
Even, bloody and broken.
He had even gone so far to tell me, not to be around him, that the guys he was with we're serious bad news, and if I knew what was good for me, I'd leave.
Of course, being the stubborn lil' shit I can be, I stayed.
 I'd been around hustlers and criminals a million times over, and I wasn't just going to leave because he said so. As if I didn't know what the scene was like. I'd known this guy since I was 15 years old, and loved him every day since we'd first kissed. I loved him for being so lost, he'd always been this way, and I wanted to be there despite it all. Like my love could change something. They say guys have this knight in shinning armour hang up, but to be honest, I think women are blinded by this even more then men.
So, I stayed.
We drank.
The whole time I had my eyes on him, watching him hit on other chicks (really Ang?) hoping that at some point we'd get away from this mess, and I'd be with the man I saw in my heart.
WRONG.
As usual.
Instead his friend hit on me all night, buying me roses and drinks.
I accepted 'cause I didn't want to be rude, and who wouldn't want free shots...
But the entire time, I had this churning feeling in my gut. I couldn't place it, and figured because he was with me, I'd be safe. I mean, he loved me right?
My ass.
WRONG.
Leaving the bar, my ex pulled up his car, and yelled at me to get in.
I thought about going, but knew it would be an all night cocaine binge, so I said no.
He yelled at me again, to get in, and this time he was pissed.
Again I said no. My hands shaking.
He told me off, slammed the car door and drove away.
Leaving me there with his friend.
The one who bought me Jagger and roses.
So, buddy offered to walk me to the bus, his french accent kind of appealing.
Within a few minutes he was violently shoving me into a stair well, and pinning me up against the wall.
Tearing at my clothes, forcefully.
I tried to fight back initially, but when he gripped his hands around my throat, and slammed my head against the brick, I froze.
When I looked in his eyes, I saw it. Pure chaos and deep sickness. A predator. Calculating and wrought with oozing sexual deviance.
Details aren't what I want here, so lets just say, at one point, I was able to push him down the stairs and run. But, it's important to me, that girls understand, the best of predators hide it very well. Very, very well. Remember that, and if your gut says this ain't right, like mine did, listen. I don't care if you have six drinks covering it up. Just leave. Trust yourself.
Once I was out the door, he chased me, and just as I was hopping in a taxi, he banged on the cabby's window, and out of breath, threw money at the driver, telling him to take me home.
Some kind of twisted apology.
The next morning my best friend told me to read the paper, a man matching his description, with a french accent, had attacked and raped a girl about an hour after I had jumped in that cab. I'll never forgive myself for not going to the cops that night. I have personal reasons for that, which I'll be writing about another day. But, I knew it was him. I could feel it. Swiftly running to the bathroom to vomit, the newspaper page still gripped in my hand.
So, why would I tell you all this?
This is an extreme example of why, we need to just trust God, and let go. Let go of a person, a situation, a fantasy, a dream. A conclusion. Of closure.
We are inbred to believe we must do exceptional things for God, when we need not. Holding someones hand through life, and becoming obsessed with fixing them, can lead down dark vicious roads. It can lead to places where all the control you thought you had, is ripped from you. Sometimes you think you're doing the right thing, when really your just abusing yourself, and in your own prideful way, saying, they can't make it without me. Maybe, they don't even want to.
It's not our job to cling, and love someone to death.
It's our job to pray for them, and be an example, without becoming attached to their outcome.
Becoming attached to results, can lead us to falling into a blinded pit of pride and despair.
I'm obviously not saying it's always going to be this bad, I'm just saying, it has been for me.
I've put myself in very dangerous situations at the expense of the ones I love.
In the end, it shows me, two things.
They didn't feel the same way.
and,
I can't control one's heart, or future, no matter how hard I try.
This is really hard when your the kind of person who genuinely has a heavy compassion for people.
But, we need to also have compassion for ourselves.
And, trust our Father, no matter how bent our world can be.
I still don't know if my ex knew his friend was going to hurt me, my gut tells me, yes. He did.
I still haven't healed from all this yet, and I'm hoping this blog will help.
I'm just glad that, at this point, I've learned, and am learning, what my place is. In the lives of the ones I've loved, love and will love.
"We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things, to be holy in mean streets, among mean people, and this is not learned in five minutes"
I forgive that man, and will be praying for him after this blog is posted, because that's what God tells me will bring my healing. I forgive you, ex boyfriend, and despite all this, I wish you a good, whole and happy life. I forgive myself too...because it's not my fault.
I know that now.
Today.
I love you all, and thank you for listening.

The Letters Fall.

Limbo.
She sits staring into the computer screen.
Lost in translation.
Everything she wants to say.
The words are too weak.
The topics, to deep.
To dig it all out, leads to a chaotic mess.
One I'm too restless to sift through.
Just let me purge it out, onto the paper,
Let the letters fall where they may.
In the end, it will make more sense that way.
Since her hands aren't working.
Only for the dishes, the diapers, the cloth.
 Certainly not for satisfying expression.
 I tried to draw a woman's body yesterday,
 Came out like sticks and uneven planks.
 Scraped the sheet of paper in a breath.
 Stagnant fingers, and a wordless, dry mouth.
 A body and heart, full of dark and light.
 Pacing beneath the surface.
 A tidal wave of spirit.
 Pushing up, but resting still.
 Restrained creativity, my arch nemesis.
 So, I sat down, and wrote this dribble.
 Stamped it as a blog.
 Sent it to you.

Just Float.

It all started a few days ago. I was sitting in the backyard. Having a cigarette. One of those -holding on for dear life- cigarettes, where you know for a fact, if someone ripped it from your hand, you'd give them the smack down just to get it back. The kind where your hand is shaking as you light it. You know what I mean, that is, if you smoke. Which by the way, I wish I didn't. Yes, I will try quitting again. K , enough of my guilty smokers conscience.
 So, it was one of those smoke breaks I was having, and I had my ipod on me, so I thought I'd play some music. Scrolling through the artists I chose Adele's new album, because it's friggin' brilliant.
The moment I heard the piano start, tears just started falling from my face. I was surprised, because I knew I was stressed, but didn't know I was THAT stressed.
I just turned the music off and sat there.
Breathing.
The hurt pushing forth, cramped inside my chest.
Took a deeper breath, and shoved it all down. Down under my lungs. Swallowing it.
Like most Moms do, when they have a little guy in the next room laughing to The Backyardigins and yelling at you for more milk.
The thing was, as always, it didn't.... go away.
A few days later, and I still can't listen to music without crying.
I think of a lot of things when I let myself go, and feel it. Which isn't until it's so bad, I have no choice.
I'm such a chick like that, it's almost embarrassing.
I think about my Grandma.
I think about how scared she is. How sad she is. How she misses me, and tells me all the time, even if I just saw her.
I think about how I'm scared to move forward with God, even though it's the one thing I want above all else.
I know once I truly say yes, to the gifts and life he's given me, every thing's going to change. It's not a bad thing, just a scary as shit thing. It's messed up how the best possible thing for us, is the thing we fight the most. Whether or not we've been asking for it our entire prayer life.
I think about my friends, who are in pain, and I can't seem to lift the weight from them, like I want to.
 Even though I understand, it's not in my power or control to do so.
That sometimes I'm too tired to try.
I think about my son.
I think about how much I love him, and pray to God to make me the kind of Mother he needs.
I think about my family, and how hard it is for all of them, to be a constant support for my Grandmother. That most of the time, her dementia, hinders us from reasoning with her, so we can help her.
How I want to do more for her, but, have no idea what to do anymore.
I know I'll get there again, I just can't see the path right now.
I think about how, half the time I have no idea what I'm doing. That all I know how to do anymore is...just...pray.
I want to say, I'm on top of all of this, with God.
But I can't.
The truth is, I'm scared.
I feel little.
I don't have the answers.
Maybe I'm not supposed to.
Maybe, swimming in this vast ocean of uncertainty, is where I need to be. Again.
Who am I to argue with it.
Because the only things that's genuinely certain is the love that Jesus has for us.
So, I'll just stay there.
Hurt or not.
Empty or full.
It's the truth I have right now and I really don't want to hold onto anything else.
So, I'll cry.
I'll go to bed early and trust God, that the brighter days of truth and remedy are at hand.
Remind myself, that I don't have to be perfect.
That it's impossible.
And just float.
Just float.
Bob around in this sea of the unknown, with safety ruling my heart, because Jesus is holding my hand.

The Water.

Two days before the destruction of Japan, I had a dream.
I was sitting on my couch in my living room. Doing something as simple as watching t.v.
It was the afternoon, and my son, was upstairs sleeping in his crib.
The house was still, and everything was peacefully quiet.
A regular moment in life.
Then, I heard the noise.
The loud rushing thunder.
In it came, faster then anything I'd ever felt.
The water.
Pouring forth, an ocean of waves, filling my home.
Through the windows, crashing the glass around me.
It came so fast, pushing me backwards as I bolted up to run upstairs.
My son.
My son.
Running up the stairs of my house, the water enveloping me.
Pushing me forth, pushing me back.
I was not strong enough. It was too big. Too vast. Too powerful.
I made it to the top of the stairs, mostly because the water was carrying me upwards in its rage.
I could see the crib.
About ten feet from my grasp.
Reaching my hand out towards him, and the house, tore in half, under the pressure.
Cracking, swelling, and falling to pieces.
No more house.
Just water.
He was gone.
I was gone.
I woke up, a deep wailing grief escaping my lungs.
A terrified, pathetic sound, pushing forth from my throat.
Shaking.
A cold sweat.
I'm alive.
Landon's alive.
It's okay Angie. But, I couldn't shake it.
Two days after this, I went to the bank, to cash my baby bonus check. Standing in line, I looked up at the flat screen t.v they have there, and splashed across the news, was the wreckage of the tsunami. At first it didn't hit me. I was just too sad. I just cashed my check, and went and did groceries and other normal things.
We came home after this, and I sat down on my couch. My husband put our son down for a nap. I found myself just staring into the air, and this grief came over me. Don't get me wrong, we all grieve when things as awful as this happen. But, this was different. As the grief welled up in me. I started having visions.
Yes. Visions.
I could see, in my minds eye, people scattering. Running for cover. Terror.
I could feel and hear their screams. Their fear. Panic.
Mothers and fathers crying out for their children.
I felt the seniors holed up in old age homes. Weighed to the ground like huge rocks in their wheel chairs.
I saw dogs paddling in the great water, looking for something to grasp.
My skin, felt as though it was under water. It was cold and clammy to the touch.
I felt like I was not even here. But that I was there, in Japan, in spirit, a witness.
I have never felt grief like this, never. Ever.
One word kept repeating itself over and over in my heart.
The children.
The children.
My husband sat here with me, watching me breathe with this.
The visions and the grief was so strong, I could do nothing but weep.
I knew this grief was not my own, and these visions, far from my imagination.
With each vision, and intense feeling, I would gag, and almost throw up right there on the spot.
I cried out to my husband, and to the Lord, FATHER, what do I do?
Why are you showing me this??
The Lord spoke to my husband, and He said,
Pray daughter, weep for my children, and pray for them. I need your prayers.
So, I fell to my knees, shaking in grief. Weakened unto the Lord, weakened by the catastrophe playing in my minds eye.
I prayed like I have never prayed before.
I prayed with a faith and humility I have never felt.
There was great power in that prayer.
Great love and strength in that prayer.
I knew these words would reach far across the earth and meet his children in Japan.
It was in this moment, that God taught me what praying really is.
It is a great and loving power. One prayer like this, could do just as much, if not more, then sending one hundred thousand dollars to red cross. I felt this from the core of my being. I have never felt so small, and so big all at once. I'm telling you, if I could have died, in that moment to save Japan, I would have.
Why? because I felt the truth.
Because I felt, the naked, absolute truth.
My life, is not my own.
It is Gods.
In that moment, I gave it to Him. I understood, clearly, and with all love, that He is the way, the truth, and the life, and I would do anything He asked of me. Even if it meant death. There was no fear in me. Only pure acceptance. Pure and real devotion and sacrifice. I come last. Everything else is before me. In this, I understood the love of Jesus Christ, because the Lord, My Father, had placed the love of Jesus Christ on my heart, and I was willing to die for it.
I still am today, and forever will be.
So, people have been asking me, Angie, why have you been so quiet?
This is why.
I am quiet, because I am not the same person I was two weeks ago. Far from it.
There will be more visions, and more dreams.
I will continue.
He will continue.
Yes, I will finish my story. But, for now, this is my path. The Lord has much to tell, and show. I will be a voice at times, and this blog will be service to that. It will also be my memoirs of my past, but my past serves no purpose unless it bleeds into the wisdom of my present and future, the wisdom rightfully given by Jesus Christ, and available to all. I realize that some of you, will fight with this. Some of you may not believe me, and that's okay. I love and honour you regardless.
I take no pride in this, and none of this is my doing. I am but a student to His ways, and His Word. I cannot hide this any longer, nor would I even want to. I honour the purpose given to me, and will speak truth in all my ways, when Jesus Christ gives me the strength to do so. I am not ashamed. I am not afraid. Yes, The Lord gives gifts like this, and yes, He has chosen me for this path. I will not deny Him. Or anyone else for that matter. This is not, the only dream, or visions I have had and they will not be the last. The only difference, from before and now, is that I am no longer afraid to display it.
 I am not special, or unique in any human way. All I did, was offer all of who I am, to Him. That's it.
We are all offered the same hand.
It's up to you, whether or not you want to take it.
I chose, YES.
I love you all.
I'm here, if you have any questions, or need anything at all.
God Bless each and every one of you, in all your ways.
And please, thank God, you are standing on dry ground right now.
Go hug the crap out of your kids, or pets or whatever you love.
The only difference between you and Japan, is where you live.
Let's not ever take that for granted.
Ever.

Bite the Apple.

I fell down with that last entry.
Fell hard. Right into a bush of sharp thorns.
Seemingly side swiped, and when I hit the ground, the thorns digging in, I was ignorantly surprised.
After the post was published, and I lay there, twisting in that awful bush, I was angry. Scared.
It hurt. A lot.
Each thorn, tearing at my flesh, exposing my wounds with pain and blood. Vulnerable and raw. Shameful and filled with heavy burden. I did not feel the release once it was out in the world, actually, the exact opposite. I felt chained down and held back by it. Jailed and accused. Held captive in this place. The darkness surrounding me, very real and tangible in so many ways. A cloud of guilt covered my eyes, and for a time, I could not escape it. I could not see. So, I fought with that damn bush. Twisting and screaming. Flailing around in the dark, like a toddler having a fit. Tearing at it and accusing it. I was embarrassed. Ego filled and prideful. How could I have fallen in this trap? Wasn't I wise on my journey? wasn't I being strong?
So the fight continued. Blind and useless. Every time I'd rage fully rip out a thorn, it would only come back to bleed me out further. I couldn't sleep and when I did, I'd wake every hour. Haunted and weak. When I'd cry out to The Father, I would hear nothing. These soul cries and frustration, left inside of me. Coming to God in self pity and prideful arrogance. Get me out Father, that's your duty. Why would you request this of me, to write this story, and leave me in this bush. You said you'd be there. These words only twisting the thorns deeper. So here is where I sat. Crying, shameful and frightened. A few times, I even considered ending this whole thing. The pain was too great.
 Until this happened.
I got so wrapped up in the thorns, I had to be still. The more I'd move, the more tangled I'd become. The more I thought about it, tried to think my way out of it, the deeper they dug. So, in all that suffering, I had no choice, but, to go back to the beginning. In the beginning, the first thing The Father said to me was, quiet. Be still, be willing to be still, and then I will come to you in your meekness.
In my pain, I was far from humble. My peace had been disturbed, and I blamed the Lord for not warning me. In truth. HE DID. Many times. He had warned me not to go to fast, to wait on Him, and I had chosen, not to listen. I had chosen, to press on, and not heed His loving guidance. I was impatient, as I usually am, when I'm running on my own brain power, and not checking in with my Father. Not waiting on The Spirit. I had allowed this whole scene to become a give and take with my readers, and had left behind the give and take with God. It's not like one morning I woke up and said, hey, I'm going to write my memoirs. NO. God said that, the courage and journey of this has always come from God. I can take no ownership of any of this. ANY OF IT. I write well, because it's a gift God blessed me with. I am a part taker in this story, because it's a gift God blessed me with. It may not seem like a gift at times, but IT IS. The plain truth of it is this, I am nothing but dust and powerless intellect without The Father. Nothing I do in my life will be successful by His terms, without Him. In honesty, I want nothing to do with this unless it's driven by God. Period.
This was the humbleness The Father spoke of. When I saw this, again, I fell to my knees in love. Confessing the ego trip to Him, confessing my impatience, and asking His forgiveness for, again, trying to do things my way. It wasn't a shame thing, there was no guilt.I didn't say, sorry I was a bad girl, take me out of the bush. It was just simply this, You love me SO MUCH, you want things right and whole and full for me. That's it. So here, TAKE IT. It's not even mine. I could pervert this entire story, publish it and make mad stacks. But where's the faith in that? where's the fruit? where's the impact, if there's no grace. No humility. No honesty. No God. NO RAW AND REAL TRUTH, about my journey with Jesus Christ.
It was in that moment, that he lifted from the bush of thorns. Healed each wound, and held me. Set me upright, and brushed me off. Lifted the darkness from my eyes, and showed me, that yes, He was well pleased with this. Showed me, He had to leave me in the bush, by my own free will, and that only in humility and faith, could I be relieved from my suffering. All He was waiting for, was the space to work in me. I wouldn't give it up to Him in my protesting and anger. In my pain. I had to let go first. I had to let go of the one thing most dear to us, to ME... pride.
Let go.
Breathe, cry, and let go.
I wanted you all to know this, because without it I'd be lying. I'd be ashamed to share this part of the journey, and from the first post, I made it clear. I would not be ashamed of our all powerful and all loving Father. Thank you Father, for loving and honouring me enough to let me suffer, even when it hurts you more than it hurts me, because without this suffering, without the fear, this would just be another paperback bullshit novel about the road to self. Screw that, this is my ROAD TO YOU.
Thank you for always meeting me in the middle..thank you for being tangible in my life. Thank you for being so lovingly gentle when you walk through my camp...and delivering my enemies to me. Even when the enemy is myself. Words fail to express all things in my heart. You are EVERYTHING, and I want to give EVERYTHING I HAVE, TO YOU.
I surrender.
Again.

"I want it all."

The air was humid and chilled as we walked through the university district toward his apartment. My shaking hands shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket, wrapping it around me tightly. Cold moisture on the insides of my palms, fore boding the violence to ensue. I'm watching him, a stalking shadow, as he continues to stop every so often, and turn to see that were still following him. Hands in his khaki pockets, framing the indecency in between. The pathetic wavers of his steps. The fat little feet that carry him. The wind that blows the greased up strands of his black hair across the oily forehead. The bitter taste of my intent, showering me with cold animosity.
I'm resenting the idea, of being boxed in his apartment.
I'm concerned about video cameras in generically furnished lobbies.
I'm imagining late night, meddlesome neighbours.
I'm visualizing the axe, in Shes purse.
I'm thinking about, how entirely cold I feel. Not winter cold. Empty cold. Vacant cold.
The front steps to the small building, lead up to a door, no lobby. It's cheap and run down, the buzzer hardly even even works and I'm relieved. Walking down the rank smelling hallway and stepping into the warm apartment, my heart is beating so hard it hurts. Pounding against my ribs. A rattling little cage. I want to scream so loud the entire pitiful city would hear me, a wretched wailing. Maybe someone would come tear me from this chaos. A big hand to pluck me out of this night terror and rock me back to sleep. The searing reality of this moment, as he closes the door, and I accept, yet again. This is no dream. The settling of it inside, and my mind directs itself to that other place as Butterball leads us toward his bedroom.
The room is small and disturbingly vacant. White walls bearing no pictures. Just a creaky bed and a beat up, dusty computer desk. A folding lawn chair beside it, and I sit down, eyes chasing each corner of the room. Cross my legs, and ask if it's okay to smoke in here.
She, sits down on the bed, bouncing a little as if to test the mattress, while grease pot, over in the doorway, watches with a learing smile. The beige pants barely masking the pitiful tent of his tighty whities. Eyeing him through the smoke of my cigarette, I ask if he has anything to drink, he nods and shuffles away to go fetch.
I turn to She, and in a quiet whisper, tell her to put the axe in her jeans. She does it quickly, carefully placing it along her lower back, and covering the exposed bit with the halter top. Her jeans are tight enough to hold it up, but loose enough to hide the handle, which is good, because Pudgy has come back bearing a bottle of Crown Royal whisky and a couple glasses. Sitting down next to She on the bed, he hands me one of the cups and I dive into the liquor, asking if he has any mix. My hands shaking as I twist off the plastic cap. The spiced heat filling my nose. Thank the world for booze. No mix, he says. Sorry. If you'd like, I can ask my roommate to go to the store. The sentence he just uttered, tightening my chest into professionally tied knots. Choking slightly on the burning shot I just kicked back. Roommate? Roommate.
Fuck.
Roommate.
"Uh, yeah, sure." I say, desperately trying to stay visibly relaxed. "Can you ask him to grab me a pack of smokes too? Du Maurier light king size, cool?" He seems a little annoyed, but I don't care. My minds racing , with this unexpected snag. Damn it. Just get him the fuck out of here.
I'm guessing, at the most, we'll have twenty minutes to jack this guy. Twenty minutes. I can hear their fussing argument as he sends him out the door and it makes me nervous. I can tell Mr. Roomie has disdain for the fact, that were even here. Mildly sympathetic to his companions pervy little indiscretions and  I whisper to She..
"Your going flirt with him, get him off a bit okay? act like, I don't know, your going to massage him or something, whatever it takes, for him to get into it, and close his eyes. The moment he does, the axe. You know what to do. I'll do the talking." She nods, her face full of this, kind of, conviction. Happy to be directed. Always. I feel like a brick of cold ice, as he saunters back into the room. Rubbing the under side of his belly with his hand, and pushing it into his pants as he walks up to She. The swagger in his walk, overly confident and swiftly cut him down.
"Hey, buddy. Calm the fuck down," I say, holding my hand out, a kind of sick laughter comes out of my mouth, and it surprises me.
 " Sit the fuck down. We haven't even talked money yet, money always comes first you horny little shit." He's a little put off, shocked, at my sudden curt. Surprisingly intimidated, as he quickly pulls that vibrating hand out from inside his pants, and reaches into his back pocket for the wallet. Disappointment scrawled across his fat little face. Settled again, when the facade of my smile splashes across my face again, and ask him,
"So, what do you want her to do? She'll do anything for the right price. Anything you want..." my voice trailing off and I don't even know who's talking anymore. This conniving voice a distant echo to the Angie sleeping within. A muffled backdrop to the deep cave of my insides. Is this really happening. Yes. It is, and I watch him squirm with a pulsing fluster, as he empties the entire contents of his wallet on the computer desk next to me.
" I want it all." His eyes wide, the sausage fingers quivering. The shine of his forehead and bulbous nose in the light of his desk lamp.
My hand reaches out and violently swipes the bills into my lap and proceeds to count them. Four hundred dollars. My eyes darting back up to meet with his. Watching She, peering out from behind him, wrapping her hands over his shoulders, rubbing his chest from behind. The words breaking free of this tarnished mouth. Those black venomous lips.
"Four bills should do it. Do it just fine."

Fever

It had come by surprise. The 'excuse me ladies'. Turning around to see the pudgy student. Knapsack slung over his shoulder, eyes on the ground like an insecure thirteen year old, standing in the corner of the gym at his first school dance. The swipe of dirt, he calls a moustache, shadowing his upper lip. The gut hanging over his beige slacks. Peering out from under the collored lacoste shirt. The pubic hairs of his paunch shameless, and repulsively in view.
"I'm looking for a date," the vibrating, sausage fingers reaching into his pocket, pulling out the black leather wallet.
"I have money...."
She and I , just stare at each other in this harrowing stupor. Taking a minute to realize what he actually,  just asked. This silent monologue between us. Words spoken with facial expressions and muted body language. One arrogant nod, and it's set in motion. The wheels of the crazy train screeching against it's tracks. She wrapping her arm around him, leaning in with an enticing smile. Sweet giggles peppered with manipulation, as she directs the conversation. This butter ball of a man, soaking up the insincere flattery. Like a twelve year old pervert, he eyeballs her chest. The eyes wide and hungry. The wet, lapping tongue gliding over his top lip. Like a dog begging at the dinner table. Pathetic.
 Awkwardly running his chubby, shaking hand over her hip. I can see that he's holding back with all his pitiful strength. The blood pumping sex running through his eager veins. Each touch lashes against this ferocious heat in my chest. Pulling at my hatred. This never ending cycle of molesting eyes. Hands. Grease. Sweat. Salty, drooling poison. The bulge in his pants, twitching and pumping. Sick. Sick. Sick.
My head is spinning with a dark, vengeful hysteria. Everything that makes me up into Angie, is visualizing myself tearing him up into little bloody pieces, and spitting on his waste. You vile piece of shit.
 This rage was not intended for him, but it's too late. He made himself a target the moment he crossed that street. The second those words left his mouth, I knew it. Agreed with it, and gave it life. Feeding the wild beast. Little Shop of Horrors coming alive in my black pit of a gut, the cannibal plant springing roots in my fleshy insides. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.
 Handing over my eyes and thoughts to a murderous vendetta. Ruthless vindication. I could have been standing in front of the sweetest man in the world, or Paul Bernardo. It didn't matter. The sickness of my perception, left all men in the exact same rotting box. Abusers. Predators. Sexual deviants. Molesters. Naturally drawn to perversion and intimidating violence. The voices of my mind shouting, 'It's my turn to hunt'. MY TURN asshole, my fucking turn.
A victimless crime, they said. He's not even human. He's a mass of bulging penis and sickly, wet desires. A waste of life, a single cell containing nothing but obscene fantasies and pornographic obsessions.  This young, university student, with his unkempt greasy hair, and soiled clothes, was going to taste my fever. Naive or not. The stinking ball of tar was rolling, and I was locked down in psychotic delirium. I don't know where the real Angie went that night. Locked away somewhere inside, in the dark, tearing at herself. With each step towards his apartment, she fell deeper into the pits of my internal lock down. Deranged Angie, tucking her into bed, kissing her forehead with black tarnished lips.
You sleep baby, I'll take over from here.
No ones going to hurt you.
Not anymore.

Hitting Asphalt.

She's strong tugs on my jacket level me out enough to get my foot up, and kick him in the face with a hard thud. The lanky hands releasing me instantly, and I come down hard on top of She. Scrambling quickly to my feet, and swiftly hopping the metal link fence. Boots hitting the asphalt of the sidewalk, and I'm running. Turn around to see if she's behind me, and she is. Awkwardly sprinting in those clear plastic plat forms. Her long curly hair still wet from the shower, panic all over her red face.
 Run, Angie, run.
 It's all I can hear, all I can conceive to do. I'm hardly even thinking about whether or not She will catch up to me. I just want to get as far away from that house, as possible. The street lamps zipping past me, the feet don't even feel like they're touching the ground. In my minds eye, the paranoia coursing through me, I see our enemies chasing me. The men, irate and vindictive. Tearing down the street. Catching up to us. Tearing me back by the hair, and taking me down to the ground. But they're not. They didn't even chase us, but everything in my body is demanding me to run. My brain is screaming, I'm not safe. My body reacting without thought. I can taste the blood in the back of my throat. The asthma kicking in, but I don't give a shit. Turn back again, there She is. Still behind me. Running. Those awful shoes. This time she calls my name. I can hear it, frantic, overlapping with the hissing of wind in my ears. The pounding thuds of my heart. The loud gasping breathes from my mouth. She calls my name again. My running turning to a jog, and slowing to an exhausted tread. Leaning over, my hands on my knees. Choking with each winded pant. The tears on my cheeks drying quickly, and itching my skin. I can't breathe. The heels coming up behind me, her hand on my shoulder.
 I just remember feeling stunned. Like when I saw her face, and realized we were outside and I could feel the air on my face. Something inside, clicked, and I just went numb. Detached. Shut down. Seeing her there, in front of me. The curls of her hair wet, blowing in the wind. The redness of her cheeks, the way the freckles stood out more that way. The red rimmed, sad eyes looking at mine. My heart broke, and I just stopped feeling. That was it.
We walked after that, quiet and remote.
Somewhere in Quebec.
I have no idea where.
Hitched a ride with some passer-by.
"Where you girls headed?"
"Ottawa..downtown."
"Hop in."
The drive there, an awkward attempt at idle conversation.
Stepping out of the car, and standing on the side walk.
The streets were soundless that night.
The panic begins to sink in, with the silence of the after hours.
Ironically enough, distasteful even, three things were about to offer us an alternative to a penniless, cold night on the street.
The clear plastic plat forms.
The fact that She, had managed to escape with her purse.
And the over weight Asian student who's just crossing the street, about to proposition us into performing illicit acts for money.

Half in, Half out.

"Sit down."
Leb's heavy weight coming down on my shoulder. Solid hand forcing me back down to the chair.
"This 'aint your business." The bitter smell of hard liquor wafting from his mouth.
I want to yank out from under his grip, and make this my business. I'd be stupid if I did. I feel like a chump sitting here watching her get a scolding from this leech, at the same time, self-control is the one thing that's going to get me out of this. If I'm lucky. It's infuriating, and takes every drop of composure I can collect.The size of his hands. The broad shoulders, and hefty chest. The nostrils that flare slightly when I fidget. The eyes that dart towards me, with every sound, or heavy breath I take. I imagine the young blond girls in Russia, sold into the sex trade. I imagine them in those bath houses, in the multi roomed brothels. Trapped. Intimidated into frozen sick dolls. Robbed.
I can hear She's voice, travelling from the small confines of the bathroom.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I'm gonna clean up okay? and I'll go. I'll go...", the voice hushed and vulnerable. Shaky. Tremulous.
The door closes with an unexpected slam, and I jump in my seat. Fists seizing up, forgetting to breathe, and I'm immediately remorseful of my natural reflexes. Babyface, walking towards us and taking his stop, in between me and Leb. Leb on the couch across from me. Babyface standing in the middle of us, off to my left side a bit, cigarette in hand. The long fingers, and dark shiny knuckles, holding it.
"This bitch better not play me man," he says, shaking his head violently.
 Pulling a deep drag from the thin, white cigarette. Glaring right at me. Into me. I can feel the red poking hatred that lies behind those yellowed eyes. The blackness of his pupils, bleeding into the dark irises. Looming and constant. I feel like a deer, cornered by two hunters. On a beautiful spring day when the flowers have just begun to bloom. Mayhem tearing its way through. Unforgivably barbaric.
"Are you playin' me?" he asks. It's calm and direct. My heart beating loudly in my chest. The cheeks getting hot, flushed.
"I'm not playing you Babyface." Eyes locked, the unnerving pounding in my ears. " I swear man, I just want her to take a shower and get ready. Just like you do," Eyes still locked. He's just sitting there staring at me. Reading me. Watching. The sound of water rushing from down the hall. She's in.
"You know what's gonna happen if, either of you fuck, with me. " Tapping the cigarette on the ashtray in front of me. I think of all those scenes in the movies, where the pimp burns the girl with his lit smoke.
" Imma' take from both of you what I gave, you understand?" Leaning in closer towards me. "Seeing as neither of you have any money, what 'chu you have to offer is yo' ass. It's business. It's all business up in here, you understand? I don't wanna have to do you like this. But, like I said it's all business, and if your bitch plays me, Imma take what I'm owed." Another long deep haul off the cigarette. Still, the calm voice, the undertone of pure control. Disturbingly candid.
I honestly don't remember what all was said in between this moment, and She coming out of the bathroom. The weight of this short time was so heavy, and the fear completely unbearable. Holding my breath while clips of violating rape rush through my mind. Imagining what it would feel like to get punched with those hands. Searching the room with my eyes, looking for something, anything I can use as a weapon. Can I get to the kitchen in time, would I make it to the cutlery drawer, in attempts to get my hands on a knife. What if they keep the steak knives somewhere else. They'd get me before I could find anything. How much do you think Leb weighs..maybe 250-275 pounds. How helpless I would be underneath that. The sheer defenselessness of it.
I remember just doing my best to convince him, that I agreed with him. That he had a right to be angry, and that I, myself was annoyed with her dramatics. Saying things like, she should follow through with her word. That going back on your word was unforgivable, yes. That I would help her get ready, and motivate her. She'd be going out and not to worry. It would be fine. Just to only, give me a chance. Hating myself for throwing her under the bus, but having to, in order to gain, at the most, a small amount of trust. Just enough, to allow me the opportunity into the bedroom with her. Alone.
By the time She turned the shower off, Babyface was sitting down next to Leb, having poured himself a drink. At least he wasn't pacing around anymore. Lighting smoke after smoke. Hovering over me in antagonizing skepticism. Turning to face her, Babyface shouts,
"Your girl 'aint got your back man!" Heat rising up my chest. "You best go get your ass ready you trifling bitch!" She's eyes accusing me. The anger shadowing her face and I can't say a damn thing. I need to get in that room. The adrenaline starts to pump. The hands start to vibrate as I look over to him, and ask if I can go help her. He clenches his jaw, eyeing me suspiciously. The heart pounding louder. Deafening me. He nods his head yes, and I slowly stand up.
Robotic and terrified.
I see my purse resting on the linoleum floor next to the front door, and walk over to grab it. The moment my hand envelopes the fabric handle, Babyface barks at me. "What the fuck you need your purse for?" My hand drops it instantly. He stands up from his spot on the couch. I'm shaking so bad, it's embarrassing.  "You leave your purse with me. How do I know your not gonna take off? you think I'm fucking stupid?" Blood runs cold as he hovers over me once again.
"I had some make-up in there. That's all. Imma girl, I need my purse." I say. Hoping he doesn't call me out.
"Don't fucking touch it, it's mine." I nod my head, and tell him I'm sorry. Turning around slowly and walking towards the bedroom. My coursing adrenaline, like I've never felt before. Everything is slow motion hysteria.
Walking through the door, I close it gently, leaving it open just enough to be safe. She has her back to me, angry and talking shit. She's telling me I'm a bitch for selling her out, but I don't care. All I can see is that window. Rushing over and finding the locks as fast as I can. It's one of those windows with push locks on the top  and bottom  of the screen. Where you have to push them inwards at the same time, and pull it open. It hurts your fingers, every time, and you reel back, sticking the tip of your finger in your mouth, and sucking on it. Right now, is not one of those times. I can hear She behind me panicking. Putting on the hooker shoes, and whispering, "Your fucking crazy!" Getting her clothes on as fast as she can, as I violently pull the screen open. There's a loud crack as the metal drags against itself, and I seize up. Motioning to her quickly with my waving arm. Mouthing the words, hurry up! Now!! NOW!!!!!
She runs over and throws her leg over the window sill, the long heals scraping against the siding of the house. She's out, awkwardly falling down onto the grass of the backyard lawn. My heart beating ferociously as I throw my leg over. In this same moment, Babyface charges into the bedroom. The door crashing loudly into the wall behind it. The drywall cracking.
I can hear him swearing rage fully as he bounds towards the window, grabbing my foot. My side digging into the window frame as he pulls me back. Each rib, dragged across the metal with burning hot traction.
The skin tearing. She's hands reaching up to pull on the back of my jacket...half in, half out.

Choke Back.

'Yo!! Your girls says she sick man! What's up with your bitch?"
I hear, as the bedroom door squeals on it's cheap hinges. Babyface bounding forward violently, his body thin and sharp, the white beater hanging from his torso, like rags on a scare crow. They've been smoking crack and talking for the past half  hour. All the air in my lungs seizes up, and I have no idea what to say. From behind him, I see She coming through the bedroom doorway, and run into the bathroom. Babyface staring at me, eyes wide and yellowed, the crack pipe jutting out from the fist of his hand, lighter in the other.
"Let me go talk to her." I say, standing up to face him, and he gives me the go ahead. I knock on the door three times, before she tells me she'll be out in a minute, keeping it locked. Then suddenly, she starts to dry heave. I can hear it, loudly, from outside the door, and it's clearly an act. This is like, the worst thing she could do. Completely predictable, and embarrassingly unconvincing. I knock on the door one more time, before Babyface loses his temper. It's sharp and intimidating, piercing through her immature theatrics and I can't breathe. His bark is like a vacuum, swiftly inhaling the air from my lungs.
"That bitch better stop playin' sick, and make my money back!" All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hands begin to tremble. The mind racing for defense. Overwhelming itself in its hysteria. I knock on the door again, my voice nervously abrupt, and she lets me in this time. Her face is soaked with tears, the eyes swollen and puffed out pink.
"I don't want to do it anymore Ang," she whispers through the teeth that are chewing at her nails. The eyes wide, darting back and forth, from me to the floor, and back again.
" What do you want me to do baby.." I say in frustration. A desperate tone, peppered with anger. " They know your faking it, that was so stupid. They're not dumb, they totally know. What the fuck do you want me to say now? If I tell them your not going out, they're gonna freak the fuck out.."  The tears brim over her lower eye lids, flowing quickly down her red hot cheeks, and she buries her face in her hands. The tips of her fingers vibrating, the pink tears of her cuticles, from the ferocious gnawing. Shes just shaking her head. That kind of tired sobbing, where words are useless, because your already screwed.
" K look, listen to me. Listen to me baby, " Grabbing her bear shoulders with my palms. The knot of the halter top, a tight bow, and it brushes against my fingers. She looks like a child in a hookers costume. Painfully awkward. Like a boy in tube top. " I'm going to tell them, your washing up, and I'm gonna help you get ready. I'll say your feeling better. That your gonna shower, and get dressed. After your done showering, we'll go in the bedroom to get ready, hopefully I can convince them to let me help you. Then we'll take off out the  window." The moment it comes out of my mouth, she recoils. Her eyes wide and skeptical. I grab her hand in mine, and she rips it back.
" There's no way they're gonna let us go in the bedroom alone," her voice travelling into a low whisper. "They already don't trust me Ang," The defeat in her voice irritates me, and I'm getting pissed.
" Look, pretending to be sick all night, and playing bullshit games is only gonna get our asses kicked!! Just do what I say, we'll get out. Please just trust me, and stop with the sick routine. It's just making it worse..okay? I'm gonna go out there and tell them your gonna shower and then we're getting ready.." Before she can protest, a loud knock on the door interrupts us.
"YO!" The two of us, cringing and reeling from the door. The seething whore monger, high on crack behind it.
"YO!! unlock the fucking door! What are you bitches doing?!" I reach out and turn the handle, unlocking the push button with a lame click, and he blows through. Grabs me by the arm with those claw like hands, and jerks me out into the hall.
"What are you doing bitch?" he spits at She. "You know what happens to little bitches that take advantage of my generosity don't chu? I go out of my way, in my good nature to help you, and this is how you play me? You think I'm fucking stupid or something?" He's leaning in the door way like a conniving vulture. The bulbous head, the gaunt neck, protruding Adam's apple. Backing her in that tiny cubicle space. " You know what Im'ma have to do, Im'ma have to fuck you for that money bitch! It's gonna go down. Or you get your ass out on the street, and change my mind, you hear me girl? Do you fucking hear me?"  The blood drains from my face. The muscles of my chest seizing shut, holding in the spastic beating of my panic stricken heart.
Violent red images parade through my mind.
A flood of rage, and hatred engulfs my thoughts.
I see myself stabbing him repeatedly with a kitchen knife.
Coming to a halting defeat, as I remember the other man in the room with me.
The hard corner of the coffee table.
The acknowledgement of my vulnerability next to Lebs prosecuting glare.
Hovering behind me, ready to choke back.
A blast of cold air runs through my spine.
Trapped.

Clips and Half Scenes.

The scene changes quickly. She comes skipping out of the shop, bags in each hand. A cheeky teenager going shopping for prom. The smile wide across her face, as she stoops down and sets the bags on the side walk, reaching her hands inside them. Pulling out the shoes, showing them off, and of course, the clothes. I try to force this approving smile, and tell her how pretty they are, but she's not buying my pathetic lie. Same goes for the halter tops and mini skirts. Awkward smile, empty compliments. Hoping that my chain smoking disguises my aversion. I imagine the way traffic perceives our trio as they pass us by. Two teenage females, girls really, standing in front of a blacked out sex shop with a restless, pacing crook. Our thin, hollowed bodies, the branding of our decline. The dark circles under our eyes. The sullen, whiter shade of pale masking our youthful features.
The cab ride to Babyface's small white townhouse house feels like the paddy wagon ride to closed custody. Just as cold, just as barren. The cab smells like outside debris and hot, stale lunch boxes. The little radio painfully blaring some kind of easy listening generic rock band. Maybe it was Phil Collins, maybe Celine Dion. Maybe even, George Micheal's. None the less, it was in bad taste. At least a handful of times, I'm drawn to glaring at the door handle. The little silver peg of a lock. Imagining what it would feel like to open the door, throw myself out and roll into traffic. What's the statistic likely hood that I'd get hit by a car. Would it be fatal. Is it worth a mangled leg, and road rash across my back and elbows.
She sits beside me, black plastic bags twisted in her slender hands.  Staring down at them in an all consuming gaze. The deep cut from the window glass, has finally started to heal over and close up. Creating a shiny pink scar around the edges. She scratches and tugs at it constantly, and I tend to reach out and hold that hand. Gently covering the area with my fingers, and resting her hand in my lap. She does it when she's nervous or afraid, and I take pride in being able to sooth it. There are so many things about her, that I love. The freckles that splash across her nose, the way it crinkles up when she laughs. Her eyes sparkling like a Santa Clause coke commercial. The long mousy brown curls of her hair. The way it looks full and buoyant, but when you touch it, it's light and soft, like a toddlers hair. The heavy french accent that comes along with all her words. Adding this child like innocence as she presses out each phrase, with a beginners charm. I often smile when she talks, she gets embarrassed, and asks me why I always do that. Lowering her head sheepishly, the long curls covering her face, and she hides from me in them. Thinking to myself, how unbelievably adorable she can be, and the purity I see in her heart, more often then not. The way she flirts with everyone she meets. Not over the top or desperate, but like a keen student, eager to offer praise and adoration. Always asking questions about them personally, and diverting the attention from herself. With a kind of sweet confidence everyone seemed to adore.
Holding her hand in the back seat, I'm grateful the cab ride is longer than I had expected. I don't want to let go of the warmth inside of her palm. The soothing engine, and the turning wheels. Lulling me in this moment of recognizing the beautiful parts of this bond, and how far away, they truly feel to me. The last few weeks playing across my mind in a series of clips and half scenes. The mornings I'd watch her sleep. The sun bringing with it a quiet warmth, and the light from the drawn curtain running across her face. The nights we'd lay in bed, confessing ourselves to each other. Rummaging through our life experiences, our memories. Our secrets. How many times, I told her, I won't let anything happen to you. It's you and me against it all. You and me, and here we are, sitting in the back of a filthy cab, on our way to settle up how many blow jobs it's going take to repay those items. Black plastic bags filled with sorrow. Filled with weeping.
The cabs halts to a stop, and her hand quickly tightens around mine.
The heart beat quickening, pulling at my breath.
The screeching of the hinges on the car door, as Babyface steps out.
My hand shaking as I reach for mine.
Letting go of her warm, fragile hand, and feel the cold air hit my palm.
Instant, and heart falling.
In a flash moment, I think of grabbing her and sitting back down. Slamming the door with a quick lock, and yelling at the driver to go. Drive as fast as you can, and don't stop.
But I don't.
I walk beside her, two white rabbits persuaded towards a twisted snare.
Stupid rabbits.

XXX Debauchery.

When She realized the fourteen hundred dollars was spent and gone. Leaving a black tar stink in my empty pocket, she freaked. A restless anxiety overcame her, and she would not be still, until she had a plan. This was the first time I'd ever seen her so concerned. So, fearful. A quiet, self loathing anger fell upon her, and her mind walked into a dark place. Sifting through downtown that day, not one smile would beam from her delicate features. The denial had packed up and ran away on her, and there was nothing I could say, to fill that empty space. The reality of where we were at, had amplified inside of her, and the weight was dragging her down. Hard.
Running into Babyface on those dry sullen streets, she had been drawn to him, like a moth to light. Or rather, a witless insect, to an electrifying bug zapper. A dull, sluggish house fly, spastic in it's movements, hovering towards it's end. Unaware of it's demise, searching for the gratifying warmth.
Babyface took one look at that melancholy face, and pounced like a lion on a sick and frail gazelle. Bending his long thin arm around her shoulders, and pulling her inside his cocoon of waste. A yellow smoking exhaust, flowing from his mouth, with each poisonous word he whispers, coiled snake in the Garden of Eden. Twisted body, swollen ashy knuckles, unsightly thin hands running along the back of her neck, stealing bits of her youth and innocence with each fowl touch. Like a horse fly at the beach, taking small, but painful bites as it wavers around you indiscreetly. Diving in swiftly, darting away even faster.
This is exactly how this all got started. She. Afraid and dependant, drawing in the attentions, fueled by her weakness.  
The vulnerable and naive voice, salty, warm tears in her eyes. Spilling her concerns, to this sleazy piece of shit. Babyface, joyfully welcoming it, and relieving her fears with premeditated lines. The Pimps Monologue. Lures me into daydreaming of vomiting in his face. For fun.
 I try to tell her,  baby girl, this is all a big game, he doesn't give a shit about you, but she refuses to listen. Her desperation numbing her and narrowing her perception. Tells me, maybe I'm wrong, and he'll help us out. Yeah, help us out, by slapping you on the ass and sending you out to Montreal Rd in a mini skirt and platform stripper heals. She tells me, maybe she could handle that, maybe it's not as bad as I might think. That we need the money. I'm revolted just to hear it, appalled that she would even try and believe this offensive bullshit. That she would, for even a second, trust this grim and lowly character, made my hands shake in disgust. I could have just walked away. Left her, to suffer the consequences of her uneducated approach, but I couldn't do it. Not only was I afraid for her, but I was just as lost as she was. Just as empty, as viciously alone and ashamed. As much as I was sick to my stomach with this, I was beginning to allow myself to believe, that perhaps this was our only choice. The vile, unsympathetic streets surrounding us, had begun to take it's toll. We were tired. So tired, that the idea of prostitution, had begun to lose it's perversion and filth, and become an option. It's not that I thought I could follow through with it, but that I thought maybe, I could watch her go through with it. Morphing me into a villainous, crooked woman. The starving witch inviting Hansel and Gretel for dinner. That I figured, at the very least, I could benefit from this. Use her. Even though, I didn't verbalize it, in the same way Babyface did, I was still just as two-faced and self serving as he was. All the more corrupt, because, willing or not, I was ready to throw her under the bus. At least Babyface could say it out loud, be forth right about it. I on the other hand, protested against it for only a short while, then quickly shutting my mouth, as I watched her fall into his diabolic charms. Convincing myself, again, that she is a big girl, and if she wanted to do this, I would be the first one to reap the benefits of her financial gain. So, I agreed to follow through with the plan. Plan being, two things. Babyface would be taking us clothes shopping,  then we would proceed to his house, and he would teach her the ropes. Within an hour of running into him downtown, we are in a perverse triple x sex shop, perusing hooker shoes and stripper gear. She, perks up seeing all the shiny sparkles on the shelves and turns to Babyface with a smile. Girls and shoes. Even in this repulsive moment, she's lavishing in the idea of new footwear. Totally blind to the shamefully vile porn, and sex trade debauchery. To the lingering degradation, and bad taste left in my my mouth. Claimed as audience to this undesirable shopping trip, my stomach turns in painful knots. Nausea permeating through me, vibrating in my chest. My skin feels like it's been touched by a frenzied crowd of middle aged child molesters, and I cannot sit here. Cannot watch her try on pair after pair of clear plastic plat forms and trashy spandex dresses. Watch him run his greasy hands over her body, inspecting her curves, perversly touching her to make sure all fits well. Not enough ass here... we need your tits to push out more here, and he already owns her. I imagine the kind of residue he leaves on her with each humiliating touch, and before I lash out in rage at them both, I step outside for cigarette. Each drag I take, is followed by lashing tears of perfectly hell bound shame.
I don't even know who I am anymore.

Tearing at my heels.

I wake up in a hotel room, the air still and quiet. A harsh and unwelcome ray of sunlight hitting my face through a slip in the curtain. I squint my eyes and shield them with my shaking hand. Clearing my dry throat and slowly sitting up, the hangover rising up and connecting to my heavy head. She, sleeps to my left, laying on her stomach, face pushed into the pillow. Little breathes of air, softly blowing the strands of her hair, back and forth over her mouth. She looks impossibly peaceful in these morning hours. Her slender hand hanging over the side of the bed. The soft smile she sleeps with, like she knows something beautiful, and she hasn't told me yet. Tyler's still perched in the lounge chair, eyes closed, darting back and forth under his eyelids, and I imagine he dreams of all the things he won't tell me. Maybe, it's a dark place, maybe it's a place of cumbersome memories, or maybe he's just full of shit. I'm tired of trying to put the puzzle together.
His face is pale and ashy, his lips, dry and cracked. The rails of cocaine from the night before have left   a lackluster residue over his skin and I expect him to rise to the day, bitter and sketchy. As usual.
Stumbling over to the card table, I sit down and pour myself a large glass of liquor and some kind of dark cola. The gratifying burning in my gut sets the tone for my day, and I'll be drunk from here on in kids.
Taking in the childlike noises of the sleeping pair, I reach into my jean pocket and pull out seven dollars. Seven dollars. I laugh, and shake my head, relieved that at the very least, I have enough money for a pack of smokes. With a fuzzy head, I turn and peer at the  forty ounce of liquor sitting on the table next to me, two thirds full, to the bag of weed in my lap, and I sigh in relief. Rescued by my ammunition. Able bodied to walk independent from my fear, drunkenly oblivious to my own stupor, and be free. Well, as close to free as I'm going to get, and for today, that'll do.
Tomorrow evening brings it own obstacles.
Obstacle number one, get Babyface out of the bedroom and away from She. Obstacle number two, get into the back bedroom with She, alone. Obstacle number three, hope to God the bedroom window is unlocked. Obstacle number four, get out of the bedroom window and hope to God, again, that we can run far enough, and fast enough, that they don't catch us. Which would most probably lead to a good beating, and one hundred percent chance of being raped. Sounds like some kind of sadistic weather report, and I'm lured back into seeing myself sitting in that hotel lounge chair. Pacified by the gulps of flat coke and vodka. My eyes closed, taking in the only quiet peace the day will hold for me. Before they wake up, and the melodramatic documentary of our dysfunctional tirade takes over. Slipping indiscreetly into the roles we've appointed ourselves with.
 Reality, spurting towards us, wild eyed and foaming at the mouth.
A rabid dog, vicious and cunning in it's attack.
Plunging ahead, in it's mania and tearing at my heels.
Ripping away at the soft flesh underneath.
Taking me down with one searing grip.
Hot puncture wounds making a mark out of my ignorance.
Unfortunately, reality for us, comes in the form of well raised street pimps, and not a rabid canine.
I would have preferred the bitter saliva, and lock jaw.

Twelve Times.

Some kind of ludicrous comment comes out of my mouth,  something like,
' Okay, but we're just going to count it.' Knowing damn well,  'just counting' this money, would be as likely as saying, ' I'm just going to do one line of cocaine.' It just not realistic. In the same way cocaine shamelessly removes your  inhibitions, money can blind you into over looking the likely-hood of consequences. It's really hard to ignore the possibilities available to you, when you're holding a fan of one-hundred dollar bills in your hand. More so, when you're sixteen years old, homeless, and hungry, sitting in a house you just broke into, so you could do laundry and take a shower.
I casually tell She to chill out and wait a bit, so I can go clean up. As I get up to cross the hall towards the bathroom, she calls out, in a little girl voice..
' Angie..please, can we take it?'
I smile as I close the door on her, and turn the shower knobs on, without answering her question. Taking off the worn out clothes I've been wearing for three days and stepping into that fresh, steaming hot water.
Showering on the run, is always fast. For some reason or another. Sometimes it's because you've locked yourself in the mall bathroom, washing yourself with paper towels and hand soap in the sink. Other times, it's because a friend let you come in while her Mom was at the grocery store, and you have to be in and out in twenty minutes. This time, it was because there was fourteen hundred dollars in the near by guest bedroom and I'm suddenly paranoid Mr. Suburban is going to come home any minute, and find us rummaging through his well furnished town house.
After wrapping up in the bathroom, I borrow a t shirt from our kindly home owner, and get dressed. She, repeating the same question as before, as I walk into the smaller bedroom and take the handful of cash. Stuffing it into my pocket. Pick up the sandwich bag full of mushrooms and tell her, it's time to go. Before rushing out the backdoor, we call a cab to meet us a few streets over. Fifteen minutes later, we're driving away from the suburban backdrop, and back into the filthy spectacle of downtown. I fumble awkwardly with the bills pushing out of my pocket, as I pay the cab driver and quickly duck into the lower level of the nearby mall. The crowd of  pedestrians camouflaging us, and I feel better. Ironically enough, the first item purchased with the money, was a wallet to hold it in. Next thing on our list, eat the bag of mushrooms. I honestly can't remember what led us to ingest the entire contents of the bag. Whether it was purely an immature curiosity, or just teenage paranoia. Either way, the shopping center, and the core of downtown, surrounding it, were about to turn into a kaleidoscopic haze of melting faces and  dancing receipts. The mushrooms are chewy and bitter as I forcefully push them down my throat with my tongue. Leaving a rancid poisonous taste in my dry mouth. Hitting the bottom of my stomach with a gurgling burn. My empty gut, devouring the hallucinogenic spores and sending me into a state of sketchy oblivion.
 News travels fast downtown, just like high school, every down and out addict, lost teenager, and hustler looking for someone to feed of off. Eyes wide and ears open for a meal ticket. Keeping your business to yourself is recommended, and I know that. Thing is, the mushrooms have made a display of us, and in our psychedelic mirage, we ignorantly step up to the stage available to us. Throwing money this way and that, making a mockery of ourselves, and inviting the manipulation of our peers. Every ones a pimp around here, and if I were to be honest, I'd shamefully add myself to that list.
 When I get arrested in the near future, that final moment, the police will interrogate me for three hours, and proceed to tell me, they followed us every moment of that day. They will laugh at me for being so ignorant and blatantly obvious. I'll think to myself, with my mouth tightly zipped, why they didn't arrest us then, and why they let it go on for two more weeks. There are three more robberies ahead of me, each one, the police saying, we were there. We were watching you. I'll laugh when they say this, and ask them why they didn't do their damn job...and the interrogation ends there, both cops walking out on me with a snicker and the slam of the metal door. I'll get twelve times the sentence She does. Twelve times.

Tea Party.

I felt completely out of place, walking down the clean, landscaped rural street. The sound of sprinklers and lawn mowers filling the early morning air. The grass still wet with dew, dogs being walked by stay at home mothers, passing us by with a smile and well mannered good morning. School buses stopping at corners, picking up the kiddies, for their fun filled school day. The engine roaring loudly, as the big yellow bus passes us by. Kids, with their noses pressed up on the glass, waving with big innocent smiles. I feel like a convict walking through the kindergarten playground. Ill fitted for this lovely morning scene.
As I step onto Mr. Suburbans well manicured lawn, I cringe. Visualizing myself as this big burly man stepping on sand castles at the beach. Little cries from the grass as I take each step. Like there's a spot light on me, pointing me out as an unwelcome guest.
 At the time, we had come all the way out here, to shower. An empty house, where we could shield ourselves, and pretend, if only for an afternoon, that we were okay. A desperate attempt to play house, like two little girls setting up a tea party. Little china cups filled with denial and lies. Small rectangle cookies made of rat poison and cockroaches. Sugared with self-loathing and miss placed direction.
 It's easy enough to get inside, being that the window in the living room, has a small break in it. Right in the bottom corner. Big enough to get my hand through, and unlatch the window, without tearing my skin up with glass shards. Pushing myself through that small window, leaves me with a resonating anxiety. Like every sound I make is heard by the neighbours, and the police have already been called. She, skips right to the kitchen, and rummages through the fridge. I honestly think this girl is half man, because I've never met a chick who can eat at a time like this. Reminds me of those stories you read in true crime novels, where the killer stays in the house after his blood thirsty crime, and fixes himself a roast beef sandwich. Drinks a can of Pepsi, and leaves his prints on the twisted pop can. Bringing irony to the darkest of moments.
I choose to take a quick tour of the house, just to be absolutely sure Mr. Suburban isn't here. For all we know he's in the shower, or standing behind his bedroom door, breathing heavily with a gun in his hand. As I tread quietly up the hardwood steps, my heart's beating out of my chest. She, clanging in the kitchen, as  I hit the last stair and quietly check the two bedrooms and bathroom. Nothing. I let out a deep sigh of relief, as I sit on the neatly made bed in the spare bedroom. Turning to my right, I see the dresser, and remember something Mr. Suburban had said the night we stayed here last.
'Don't go in my drawers. I mean it Angie.'
Only one thing can happen after someone says something like that to you, in a circumstance such as my own. You go through the damn drawers. I know, I'm such an asshole.
Opening the top drawer, I see two things.
One being, a medium sized plastic baggie, filled with white magic mushrooms.
The second thing being, a purple Crown Royal bag, filled with anything but, a bottle of mediocre whisky.
I call She, and she comes bounding up the stairs, half a bagel sticking out of her cute french mouth.
'Baby, look,' I say as she leans over my shoulder and peaks into the treasure chest. I grab the velvet purple bag and drop it's contents onto the bed beside me.
A respectably sized bundle of cash, held together by elastic bands.
She drops her jaw, and looks at me wide eyed, 'Angie...let me count it. Please?'

Mr.Suburban

Hind sight is always 20/20, as they say. Sitting in that chair, bending my mind to find a way into that room without suspicion, brought that cliche comment, into my thoughts. I think about the fourteen hundred dollars I had in my hand a few days ago. The curled wad of cash, so thick, it wouldn't even fit into my jean pocket. I think about how it could have paid for a week in a safe little hotel, plus food, but no. Those damn mushrooms we did, taking all the sense in my brain, turning it into a restless pile of meandering nonsense. An overwhelming trip, with a heavy undertone of hyper static. Mushrooms leave you with minimal decision making skills. Each thought overlapping the other, leaving you agitated and hurried. One thing to the next. Ever changing and transient. Never mind the fact, that, that day in particular, She and I had shared an entire quarter of mushrooms between each other, in one fowl tasting gulp. A quarter, seven grams. Ingested in a matter of five minutes between the both of us. That makes for one conscious smothering high, but I guess I can't blame it all on the mushrooms.
  One thing was to blame for a situation such as this, money. It's always money. Every dirty, under handed little thing, can owe itself to money. The reason I'm sitting here on this cheap, awkward, wood press chair. The reason She, is submissively inhaling the devil in the next room. Why, Leb is breathing deep, rage filled sighs across from me. Money. Everything costs something, in one way or another. Which takes this story back a week or so. To when Tyler called a friend, asking if we could crash at his place for the night.
Mr. Suburban. Mr. Suburban lives in a rural community outside of the city. He wears Billabong t-shirts and looks like a well to do college student with goals and aspirations. Mr.Suburban has a laid back beachy haircut, and probably snowboards in the winter season. He's a very cordial and well-mannered man, so much so, I'm surprised Tyler even has friends like this. Mr.Suburban has a practical, family marketed car, and his house is clean and neatly furnished. He kindly mixes all our drinks, and not once approaches me, or She with inappropriate sexual gestures. Even goes so far as to lend us pyjamas for our informal sleepover.  Offers us breakfast in the morning when we wake up hungover and delirious. When he leaves, he tells us to take our time and feel free to shower. Tells us he has two homes, this being the house he rarely uses, only to party, and not to worry about staying here most of the day, if we'd like too. He writes his phone number on the inside of my pack of cigarettes before he walks out the door, and I'm relieved.
 Too bad I'll screw it all up, when I rob his house a few days from now...

Dominian.

Dr.Dre's 'Next Episode' pumps out of the small stereo in the corner of the living room. The Lebanese guy sitting across from me, watching my every move. Running his eyes up and down my body. A quiet dominion radiating from him. I swear he's recording every breath I take. Every awkward twist of my hands, the quick nervous movements of my feet. I look him in the eye with subtle defiance. Knowing that if I were to say and do what I really wanted to at this point, he'd grab me by the hair and smash my face into the nearby coffee table. I know this, because it's what he told me would happen, and I believe him. He has the same look in his eye that Babyface has, except his, is peppered with a raging violence. You can smell it off him, the searing vicious heat. The kind of guy, who relishes intimidating women. I've seen him do it before, downtown in front of a coffee shop. Grabbing this poor girl and throwing her up against a wall by the neck of her shirt. His face in hers, so close, you could see the drops of spit hitting her soft,pretty face as he erupted. I've always been scared of him. From the moment I first saw him downtown a couple years before. A street hustling, heavy. Frequenting the main strip often, surrounded by his entourage of hip hop dressing thugs. Look at him the wrong way in passing, and he'll beat you down out in the open, just to make a point. When we came through the front door earlier, and I saw him there, my heart stopped. Panic welling in my gut as the door closed behind me and I realized I was trapped in this house with him. My foreboding coming to a reality, as he tells me to sit in this chair and not move. She is in the back bedroom with Babyface, smoking crack. I had been there with her minutes earlier, warning her not to smoke the little yellowed rocks, and it had pissed him off. So he kicked my ass out, She staring up at me, eyes glazed and high out of her mind. It took all my strength to walk away and shut that door on her. Leave her in that room, the tall black pimp hovering over her.
A private conversation, Leb says, and I need to mind my own business, keep my mouth shut and do as I'm told. Looking at the sturdy coffee table, I listen, and imagine how much it would hurt to have my head driven into that hard corner. I'm still wearing my jacket and leather boots, hoping I'll find a way to get out of here, but that's going to be hard. He went out of his way to,casually, lock all the doors and windows. Purposely making a scene out of it. Just to drive the nail in the coffin. Cocky asshole. I'm wishing I was a man right now, or at least a woman with a gun. I'm not a coward by any means, but sometimes, your just shit out of luck. I knew if I reacted on him, he would show me who's boss without a second thought. He's pushing me, to get a rise. Because he wants to hurt me. He gets off on this kind of shit. He wants me to be afraid, and I won't give it to him. What I am doing, is sitting here wishing I could get She out of that bedroom, and get the fuck out of here. Knowing that Babyface is in there, filling her little body with ten piece after ten piece. The hot, yellow, poison smoke, filling her lungs. The stink of melted rubber traveling through the house,crack, the worst smelling drug to ever hit the street. I'm wondering what he's saying to her now, ten minutes have passed since I was last in there. Is he still talking prices with her? has she changed her mind?
Leb's still sitting quietly across from me. Hat backwards, drink in hand, resting on his knee. Dre blaring out of the speakers, the base reverberating on the walls. I'm thinking about Tyler, and how he's never really there for me, when I truly need him. Hey Tyler, I'm being held hostage at this crazy pimps house, can you come pick me up? No such luck. All I have is his set of keys, gripped tightly in my clammy shaking fist. I'm asking myself how we got here, and what the fuck I can do about it. Searching the room with my eyes, and I remember that Leb probably didn't lock the back bedroom window. The room She is in, being molested by cocaine and a wise talking pimp. I hold onto that thought like an owl grips a mouse in the night, claws wrapped tightly around it's twisting rodent body. It's my only out. Now I just have to find a way to get back in there, and get greasy, lanky Babyface distracted. Never mind the violent Leb sitting across from me with those vindictive, drunk eyes..