Have to stay awake. 

Eyelids heavy like lead and my bones hurt.  Are they shrinking or growing?  I can’t tell but I’m going to keep scratching until I get them out.  Who the hell needs bones anyway?  Visions of super heroine-ism flash through my tired mind and I love it.  I’m smiling.  I think I’m smiling.  I think I shit myself as well.  That can be the only explanation for that smell.  I did it or the man next to me did it.  My bowels feel heavy and my mouth feels like a salt lick.  If I’m not the one who shit themselves than I am certainly the one responsible for the vomit on the sidewalk.  One way or another, something that was in me came back out and it smells like hell.    

God damn this itch. 

The rain is pissing down.  It’s been raining like this on and off for weeks now.  They say it’s good.  The earth needs water.  When you live in God’s ass crack you don’t care what the scenery is like as long as he wipes every now and then.  He doesn’t.  God is a hands off type.  Real hippy, that rat bastard. 

I’m sorry Lord.

There’s a man looking at me.  He’s thinking about it.  He wants it and I’ll give it to him.  I’m a swallower, sir, step right this way.  Or is it the vomit he’s looking at.  I feel sick.  I need to throw up.  Didn’t I do that already?  No, no, no.  That wasn’t me.  That was Bobby Brown Bag on my right.  He did that.  Vomiting is for supermodels and that is definitely not me.  I am not a runway broad.  I am the back alley bitch all the way.  And, yes, I do that too. 

Need to get up and move.

How can I be this hot?  It’s raining.  I shouldn’t be sweating.  This ain’t Florida.  Dammit all.  Damn this ran and damn this city.  Damn this life.  Right, that part we already had covered.  Shit.  I think I did it again. 

Please, I am begging.

The man’s back.  He’s coming closer.  I need to wipe my mouth, present a pleasant shopping experience for the customer.  He’s crouching down in front of me.  Jesus, the man is black.  His whole essence is black.  Shiny black shoes, black suit pants worth more than my life, black suit jacket, black shirt, black tie, black bowler hat, black gloves, black umbrella.  Wait.  Umbrella.  Something about that is ringing a bell.  I can’t remember.  I’m looking at his face though.  God, he’s beautiful.

Black eyes like death. 

He’s holding something out.  What the hell is that?  I can’t see with all this rain.  I have to sit up.  Oh, God.  Please.  Please tell me it’s what I think it is.  Please tell me this isn’t a dream.  I haven’t even had to prove my skills at the flute yet and he’s giving it to me.  He knows.  I’ve been so low for so long and he’s giving me  the elevator.  The key to the skyrocket.  The booster pack.  The Icarus Wings.  Oh, I’m gonna fly.  I can already feel the warm, happy centre of everything good. 

“For me?” 

I sound like a two dollar tramp.  I don’t even cost a quarter.  Where did I get such a fancy tongue?  He’s nodding so it must be for me.  I’ve never tied off faster.  The booster hits and we have ignition.  Ground control, kick the tires and light the fires, mama is coming home.  I can feel it coming, the heat.  The blanket of love and joy that I’ve been craving for days.  Sitting here in my own piss and shit I dream of all the places I will go when the love finally embraces me again.  I am going to be a super heroine.  Heroine.  I like that word.  I don’t need the ‘e’ though.  You can keep that.  No charge, baby, no charge.  Here we go.

Her heart slowed.  Her heart stopped. 

The man with the black umbrella picked up the syringe and placed it slowly into his pocket.  He leaned closer to the dead woman and whispered in her ear. 

“If you beckon death by spitting in the face of life it is only a matter of time before it finds you.  Wander, o soul, in the pit of damnation and writhe in suffering for a life wasted.  To hell with you.” 

The man with the black umbrella stood and walked away.  Not a single soul noticed the woman had died. She remained there, unmolested, for a month.