Holly
One
She's sitting on the edge of her sodden mattress, twirling a silver necklace with a cross on it around and around on her finger. She's got a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She's naked.
This means she's thinking. She's thinking hard.
A sheet of hair falls in her face and it's singed by the Parliament tip.
If you sit behind her, you'll see her tramp stamp. It's just above her squished ass. It's squished because the mattress, even though the dealer said it was spring-less, the mattress is as solid as a rock. The tattoo above ass her reads, Damn right I'll rise again.
If you sit across from her—perhaps in the rusty rocking chair buried under spontaneous-looking bras and rough jeans—if you sit across from her, and look right under her chin, right there near her collar bone, there's blue-black ink and it says, Jesus lived and died for all your sins.
She stops spinning the cross—there's no more glittering from the circling silver. She clutches it tightly in her hand, and it squeezes its way into her bones.
She's breathing hard. She eases up on the cross and tries to breathe regularly.
She's breathing hard again.
Her breasts are heaving in and out and her hair keeps getting burnt by the cigarette in her mouth. Smoke is pluming up like Christmas Eve, from a friendly old couple's chimney.
She likes to feel herself die. Jesus did it to himself.
This means she's thinking. She's thinking hard.
A sheet of hair falls in her face and it's singed by the Parliament tip.
If you sit behind her, you'll see her tramp stamp. It's just above her squished ass. It's squished because the mattress, even though the dealer said it was spring-less, the mattress is as solid as a rock. The tattoo above ass her reads, Damn right I'll rise again.
If you sit across from her—perhaps in the rusty rocking chair buried under spontaneous-looking bras and rough jeans—if you sit across from her, and look right under her chin, right there near her collar bone, there's blue-black ink and it says, Jesus lived and died for all your sins.
She stops spinning the cross—there's no more glittering from the circling silver. She clutches it tightly in her hand, and it squeezes its way into her bones.
She's breathing hard. She eases up on the cross and tries to breathe regularly.
She's breathing hard again.
Her breasts are heaving in and out and her hair keeps getting burnt by the cigarette in her mouth. Smoke is pluming up like Christmas Eve, from a friendly old couple's chimney.
She likes to feel herself die. Jesus did it to himself.