Little Freak

She trembled with a cocktail of indescribable fear, nausea, cold and her heart pounding all the way up her throat. Unable to move, hands and knees attached to that dirty old rug, amongst a sea of broken glass and china, cigarette butts and other assorted junk that gathered in a short couple of months. Just a couple of months, her mind wandered; that was the exact amount of time she needed to make her intestines feel as revolting as her surroundings.
Had she not been so drunk, she would have remembered that the stiff fur of the rug she desperately clutched was the same spot where only days earlier she had vomited some saliva and whatever she had managed to shove down her throat.
When was it? She searched for the exact year she wrote and handed in that short story. Wishes come true. Being an only child, naturally that sentence was part of what she thought were absolute truths. However, be careful what you wish for, is a warning that usually goes with said sentence. And one she would discard more often than not.
That paper described a teen junkie held in a small apartment by a grown-up, one cold, indifferent and serious grown-up. He would provide her fix, but just what he thought would help the craving but not kill her. It also described a guilty cellphone, the girl on her knees, hungover like a decaying rockstar, throwing up after a torrid night of various abuses. Funny, some years later she would live what her made-up portrait appeared to endure.
Funny thing of when you appear to have it all, but all is not what you want, the burden becomes nearly unbearable and you can't wait to shred it to white particles of dust.

She lost that paper, the teacher who graded it, stupidly did nothing else than praise it. We all love a good, young, fucked up character to feel less miserable about ourselves. She loved being the object of desire to a sick point, and that's why she drove herself slowly but steady to her current state. Just like the paper; hands and knees pinned to the ground, a sudden rush of anxiety followed by her burning sore throat. Too weak to help it anymore, only the toxic substances creeped up her throat along with the less-than-subtle gastric acids. No more saliva, she was too dehydrated to spit anymore, so only a yellow, red and brownish mass of fluids remained in what could have passed for some chaotic painting on a furry canvass, one of those paintings that catch no one's interest. One of those boring museum paintings people just shrug at and move on. Let's be honest about canvasses with splotches of paint; there are one too many of those. Just like there's too many girls who think that being a weak fucked up person is in any way romantic or attractive, when it's just another self-destructive being.
Just craving each high and fearing the low, wondering if she would take the exact amount to off her one day, and if the cold man would show up again that same indifferent way he left, to pick her off her masterpiece or just shrug and walk away.