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Story II

posted 1/27/2007 4:02:23 PM |
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In her hands was a big bag of powdered doughnuts. White powder clung to her hand and a fine white line of it ringed her lips. A big dopy grin clung to her face and her eye were glazed and hazy. Yeah she was in a good mood thought Amy. “Hey girl how you doing?” Candy said in a pleasant voice. Her arms were lifting to shoulder height to give Amy a hug. The last thing she wanted was to be hugged but she wanted a smoke and so complied. “Girl you look like shit!” Candy said half laughing. “You need some medicine or something!” No shit Amy thought don’t we all. She was in no mood to be fucked around with but did nothing. Feeling good or not she knew never to fuck with Candy. That sister could go from happy to stabby in a heart beat. However, like dynamite if you used it right it did wonders for you. “Yeah I’m hurting pretty bad.” she said wiping snot from her nose with her forearm. “Can I bum a smoke? I left my damn pack in some assholes car.” Amy asked. Not quite a prayer ran through her mind but she strongly wished Candy would give here one. No she saved the praying for the smack. But she really wanted a cigarette anyways. Relief swam through her body when she saw Candy digging in her purse. Out came a pack of menthol cigarettes. Candy shook the pack and out popped a cigarette. With gratitude Amy grabbed it.
With the crackle of the paper burning Amy inhaled deeply letting the thick smoke settled in her lungs. Exhaling through her nose a large stream of smoke poured out. It felt good and what was better the smoke was drying her nasal passages and the snot began to run less freely. Yet still like a powerful magnet the pull of the heroin was irresistible. It was not going to be possible to sit and swap amenities with Candy.
Through the parking lot a car pulls up, Amy looking through the windshield sees the driver. He has a look Amy has seen a thousand time. She knew he was a john. And soon enough her suspicion was satisfied. Candy runs to the window asking if he needs a date. The dance had begun. “You not the police are you honey?” Amy never asked that question any more. It was like some crazy urban myth that all the hookers seemed to believe. If you ask a cop if he is a cop he has to tell you. It was a pointless as asking a psychopath if he was a psychopath. The world of hooking would be better it that was how things were. To many times had Amy been put in jail or even worse raped and beaten by some maniac. What was the point of even asking just wasting breath in her opinion. The deal must have been done cause Candy and the car pull off. No lights no sirens, she beat the cops at least this time. Amy was glad now she didn’t need to make up some story to get away from her. Taking another long drag she started the long walk to freedom.
It would not belong before she could take what was close to a vacation. A titter of laughter poured out at that thought. The beater. Some people marked the calendar by how many birthdays or anniversaries they had. Like I only have three more birthdays and a anniversary then the year will be over. Amy marked the calendar by how many more times she would be visited by the beater. Every three months he would show up like clock work. Amy would be standing out on the corner and out of nowhere she would her the hum of his truck. She was on her third beater so that meant the year was almost over. She had inherited the beater. Most girls simply couldn’t take him. Amy had lasted the longest. The previous girl after being put in the hospital left town and started hooking somewhere else. Amy had heard about him through the streets and picked him up as a client. At least the beater was faithful. He was a one hooker man if the girl could stomach it. The rumor on the street was he was a Baptist minister 5 towns down or something. Amy didn’t care he paid 1200 a pop and never gave no shit about using a condom if it ever got that far. With that kind of money Amy could take a small brake live in a cheap hotel for awhile and not in some abandoned house. The thing about the beater like the name implies he likes to beat. Amy always thought he paid the hookers to get it out of his system so he could be normal the rest of the time. Who knows maybe he had wife and kids at home Amy never spent much time thinking about it.
The beater he liked to punch and slap and pull hair. You could scream and scream but the thing was the beater always knew the difference between fake screaming and the real thing. It was the real thing that got him going. Amy thought he must have been able to tell by looking in the eyes. He liked to see the terrorized wild eyed stare, to hear the pleadings that were interrupted by hitching of breath and crying jags. He never stopped hitting you until you were completely broken down. Then sex would begin. He liked it when you cried during sex. Pitiful wailing crying the kind that gets your nose running and your eyes all puffy and red. If you should ever stop the beatings would began again. The beater was good and usually no major damage was done. A couple of black eyes a swollen nose a puffy lip and of course some sore ribs stuff like that. Nothing the heroin couldn’t fix. Usually he was good, Amy shivered remembering one event she had with the beater early on when she had been to smart for her own good.
The beater had come and picked her up and taken her to the usual spot. Amy thought at the time why feel the pain why not pop and get high. So she fixed in the bathroom thinking it would help. She remembered walking out feeling good. She had a big smile on and was doing all she could not to laugh. The beater was standing there looking stern and serious like a Minster about to give a dark sermon over the evils of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Just the thought of that almost sent her over the edge with laughter. The beater gave her a hard opened fist slap across her check. It made an absurd popping sound. The noise was like a cork shooting from a Champaign bottle. Amy began to laugh then for no real reason. The beater didn’t like that, he did not like that at all and started pummeling her. With every blow Amy laughed harder and harder. She kept laughing until she heard a sound like a pumpkin being thrown to the pavement it was wet and squishy. It was her nose, it blew up like an over ripe tomato blowing up in the sun. Blood flew into her eyes and ran down her chin. More noises like rotten fruit smashing into concrete occurred after first her right cheek, then her left cheek bone broke, crumpled up like paper cups. Amy stopped laughing and started to scream. She screamed and screamed until her jaw broke and then she just moaned and pleaded incoherently in a silent state of a agony and horror. She remembered snot, tears, and blood caking on her body like some kind of obscene birthday cake frosting. It was thick and fluffy. In the past Amy had had some religious training. It came from when she was a small girl, living with her grandma. Sh

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Jan 27 @ 4:04PM  
I'm reading not sure where we are going but I'm reading

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Story II