The Blood That Bonds

by Christopher Buecheler

  Memories like crumpled Polaroids, floating in a muddy pool. Blackness, floating, a flash of light, a voice asking her name, asking about her parents. So gentle, this voice. She told the truth. Why shouldn’t she? Her mother dead, her father gone. No parents for Two, only the street.

  Sharp sting of a needle, and then gentle bliss, descending down, back into warm darkness.

  By the time her wounds had healed, and she was capable of getting out of bed, Two was fully addicted to the heroin Darren brought her once a day.

  Days passed. Escape. Why not? The heroin already held her in an iron grip, but heroin was in ready supply. She would not submit to the indignities Darren proposed. She would not sell her body for what could be provided for without.

  She left him in the subway. Sliding onto the train, darting out from between the doors just as they closed, laughing and cursing as his angry face slid away. People all around her not-looking, a New York practice perfected to an art form. Two stole food and drink from a news stand, ran from subway cops, still laughing.

  Withdrawal came, and Two learned how truly weak she was. She’d paid for the heroin with the same currency Darren had initially proposed. The irony of this was not lost on her, and when it was done, she felt more defiled than she would have thought possible. The dealer disappeared to obtain what she had paid for. Two dozed, unaware that she was doing so.

  Thumps on the stairs, the door kicked in, Darren’s face, raging, screaming, dragging her by the hair down the stairs, naked, splinters in her thighs. Wailing as the car sped back to the apartments, shrieking as she was dragged again into them, thrown into Darren’s office, where a slow, methodical beating commenced until she could no longer even plead with him to stop. Finally, lying on the floor, still naked, sobbing, unable to move, she’d learned what the small scar he’d burned into the webbing between her left thumb and forefinger meant.

  Two was trapped, branded like cattle, and there was not a dealer in the world (or at least, the scope of that which made up her world) who would sell to her. If Two wanted the heroin, and the need inside of her was now a ball of fire racing through her veins, she would have to earn it from Darren.

  She took the drug, went out on the corner that night, found a client. Later, in the early hours of the morning, she lay on the floor of the shower, and let the hot water wash away salty, bitter tears.

  * * *

  “Get your ass up and get ready, Two!” Darren shouted from down the hall. He kept his office near his best earners, of which Two and her roommate were perhaps the top.

  “Get ready for... what?” Two questioned, yawning and trying to clear her head. The heroin had made her drowsy, and she had slept through the strongest part of the high. Now there was only the afterglow, and that rapidly fading.

  Molly was in the bathroom, probably taking a small fix of her own. She liked to use it in small amounts. Two preferred to administer large, megaton doses.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Must’ve. Your stupid ass just forgot.” Darren’s voice betrayed his uncertainty in his own words.

  “Why is it, Darren, that every time you fuck up, it’s my stupid ass that just forgot?” Two muttered under her breath.

  “Somethin’ to say, bitch?” the words startled Two, much closer than before. Darren had come down the hall as she’d been muttering to herself, and now stood in the door. Two looked at him, too tired and high to feel any real fear. If he beat her, at least she wouldn’t have to go out on the street.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Good. You got a client. Weird motherfucker. I told him and told him, ‘look... we got girls fuck you twice as good, and look better doin’ it too.’”

  Two rolled her eyes. Darren ignored her.

  “He was real particular though. Said he wanted you, and motherfucker gave me a whole list of shit you supposed to wear. Listening?”

  “Sure.”

  “Black panties, black socks, black pants, black shirt. Tie your hair back in a ponytail. Wear a gold chain. Make your pale-ass little white-girl face even paler. Black lipstick, dark eye-shadow. Shower first, and clean yourself well. One gold chain, no other jewelry. No deodorant, no perfume. He says it ‘disagrees with him’. Don’t look at me like that, I’m just quoting him.”

  “What... the fuck?”

  “Look, if he wants you to look like a gothy heroin addict, that’s his priority.”

  “I am a heroin addict.” Two’s voice was more insolent than was prudent. Darren looked at her for a moment.

  “You’d do well not to mention that, or I could see some severe problems developing in your future,” he said, dropping the street dialect for the moment. Darren held two business degrees, and was by no means confined to what he’d learned on the street. This was a warning; Darren never adopted this manner of speaking with a girl unless she was perilously close to severe punishment. He’d cut a finger off the last girl. Cut her finger off and turned her out in the streets, hungry, in withdrawal, without a source of the drug. All alone.

  “I’ll get dressed.” Weak voice, heart pounding, Two was amazed that she still had this much capacity for fear in her. Darren sneered at her and left. As soon as she heard the door shut, Molly peeked out from the bathroom. Seeing Darren gone, she moved back into the room.

  “Even if you don’t hurt yourself, you’re going to make him hurt you sooner or later,” Molly said, and to this, Two found, she had no reply at all.

  “You look wicked!” Molly clapped her hands and grinned. Even Two, preening before the mirror, had to admit that it was the truth. Her own predilection for black clothing had made dressing simple. The gold chain had been a bit harder, but it had been there, shoved into the back of a drawer. It would probably be broken; Men liked to tear them off in the heat of passion. But it had been requested, and Two knew Darren would inspect her before she left.

  She was pale, her wavy blonde hair tied back with a simple piece of black rawhide. Big, green eyes now nearly luminous against her white face. Her silk blouse was low cut, showing off what little endowment she possessed. Her jeans tight, emphasizing her legs, which Two had always thought the best part of her. She couldn’t claim they were long; she stood at just over 5’4”, but they were well formed.

  She had no black lipstick. Darren’s answer to this made her grimace. “Borrow some from Lisa.”

  Molly arched an eyebrow. “This should be fun.”

  Lisa had attacked Two in the kitchen a week ago, screaming something about Two’s using ‘her shower.’ Two, who had no idea that shower territoriality was even of any significance, had been unprepared. She’d stood up, and Lisa had shoved her backwards against the table. Two had reacted instinctively, swinging back around and giving a shove of her own.

  Lisa had fallen backwards, and the altercation might well have ended there. Two could see from the other girl’s eyes that she was unused to anyone putting up an actual fight. This brought back memories of an earlier incident. Out of sheer spite, Lisa had forced Molly to turn over all of her money, strip naked, and shove the clothes down one of the building’s laundry chutes. She’d then stood at the top of the stairs and watched as Molly climbed down into the dank, spider-infested basement to retrieve them. The incident had given Molly nightmares for two weeks.

  A circle of girls had formed, though, and before either Two or Lisa could walk away, they were shoved right back into the center. Lisa, deriving confidence from the crowd, began shrieking again.

  Looking incredulous, Two drew back her fist and punched Lisa in the mouth.

  All of the fight went out of the other girl in an instant, and she crumpled to her knees. The blow had cost Two the skin on her knuckles, but it had cost Lisa two teeth.

  Darren had arrived to prevent any further damage from being done, though Two had no intention of pressing the attack. He’d grabbed Two, dragged her to his office, and proceeded to slap her with a belt. The beating was light, however, and he’d let her escape after only a few hits. “Bitch had it coming,” He’d
conceded.

  Two took a deep breath, and knocked on Lisa’s door. No response. Two knocked again, waited, grew angry. She hammered on the door. “Lisa! I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door or the next time I see you, I swear to God I’m going to make a necklace out of the rest of your teeth.”

  Click of a lock being undone. The doorknob twisted in Two’s hand and she let it go. Lisa’s puffy, petulant face stared out at her.

  “I was sleeping,” she said, not a trace of it in her voice.

  “And I don’t care. Darren says you have to lend me your black lipstick.”

  Two had taken half a step into the room. Now she managed to move backward in time to keep the speeding door from hitting her in the face. She looked over at Molly, who was standing in their own doorway. Molly rolled her eyes. Two turned back, preparing to kick the door in, when it opened. Lisa hurled the lipstick at Two, who missed the catch. She heard it clatter against the wall behind her.

  “Don’t ever fucking ask me for anything again, cunt!” Lisa slammed the door closed again.

  “You know, you really should get that gap in your teeth fixed, hon. Your S’s whistle!” Two called, her voice all sunshine and sugar. Behind her, Molly burst into bright peals of laughter.

  * * *

  Her friends knew very little of Two’s new life. Rhes, Sarah, Sid; light that she used sometimes to drive away the dark. Darren, the epitome of kindness, gave each girl two days of the month off. Two’s were the first and third Sunday, and she typically spent them at Sid’s. She would take the drug early, letting most of its effects wear off before arriving at the bar. She didn’t want them to know. She didn’t want anyone to know.

  They still suspected. Her visits were too infrequent, yet too regular, for them to believe that she was “just busy.” Yet whenever Rhes attempted to learn where she’d been, what she was doing for money, where the bags under her eyes had come from, the air went immediately cold. Two’s expression would forbid further discussion, and Rhes, for all his kindness, could not stand to hurt Two in so blatant a manner. He couldn’t interrogate her.

  Eventually, the questions stopped.

  Two felt sure that they knew of her occupation. She thought that Sarah would have guessed by now, even if Rhes was busy trying to fool himself. What was the most logical way for a young girl to survive on the street? Why would she give no information about it?

  She desperately hoped they didn’t suspect the drugs. Of this, far more than giving strangers the use of her body, Two was ashamed. To be enslaved so fully by something so darkly and desperately evil. Horror masquerading as bliss, disease and decay and death hiding behind a porcelain visage of joy. When the drug ran new through her veins, Two felt as if all problems had ceased to exist. When it ebbed at its lowest, suicidal depression threatened to overwhelm her.

  It grew worse. Two had begun skipping visits even to Sid’s, choosing instead to spend the day in this bliss, this forgetfulness, this floating white. Seeing Rhes and Sarah together depressed her. Seeing Sid, Tina the waitress, Dan the other bouncer, free to live their lives as they chose, slave only to their own whims and desires; it was terribly beautiful to Two, and she was beginning to abhor this beauty. She was beginning to hate those she so desperately wanted to love.

  For their part, Rhes and Sarah knew more than they let on, only because they understood how badly this knowledge would hurt Two. They were sure about the profession, had strong suspicions about the drug. Were it within their means, they would gladly have lifted Two up and stolen her away from the life she had fallen into. Their resources were too small. There was no money to support her withdrawal, or enter her into a clinic, particularly given that such an act would likely procure wrath from sources they were unfamiliar with.

  So they observed, horrified, as Two began to fall apart in front of them. Her naturally light skin became sickly pallor, bags formed under her eyes, her voice fell to flat monotone. Worst by far was the expression of complete apathy. Two’s body moved, her mouth formed sentences, but her eyes were dead.

  Sarah wanted to confront her, at least to have the truth. This was one of the few areas in which Rhes had ever denied her. He’d known Two far longer, lived with her, understood her. She was killing herself, but the process would only be accelerated if they alienated her. Better to try and find a solution. Better to watch her die slowly than make it happen all at once. That was their line of thinking.

  Two might have thought differently.

  * * *

  It took Darren a moment to remember to sneer when Two entered the room, a sure sign that she had impressed him. Two stood before him, letting him survey her appearance. This was customary for Darren’s top-tier girls.

  “Not too fuckin’ bad. Lose the purse.”

  Two tilted her head, surprised. Darren was fond of purses, liked his girls to carry them even if they had nothing to carry. He said they were classy.

  “Client wants you to leave it here. That shirt tight enough? It’s starting to get cold out, and the client wants to know it’s getting cold out.”

  Two rolled her eyes. “He’ll see. He’ll know.”

  “Good. Get. Smoke on your way to the corner, because he doesn’t want to see a cigarette for the rest of the night.”

  “How does he know I...” Two was bewildered. It was unusual for clients to know anything about her before she met them. A crawly feeling wormed its way into the base of her spine. Probably a stalker. Great.

  “I don’t know how he knows. I don’t care.” Darren looked her in the eyes, a rare occurrence. “Look: you make this guy happy... price he paid up front for you don’t even make sense. He goes home satisfied, I may throw in an extra ration for you.”

  Two’s eyes lit up. An extra ration was Christmas. Her birthday. The return of Jesus Christ himself. She grinned, turned, and left, tossing her purse into her room as she went by. She’d let the guy do whatever he wanted, even the things that normal clients were forbidden. She’d take him to the moon. She’d endure hell itself for an extra ration.

  Outside it felt like Autumn was supposed to feel. Cool, but not cold. Dark. Two lit a cigarette and glanced around. A girl with bright purple hair was leaning into the window of a police cruiser, smiling and snapping her gum. No trouble there. Across the street, a man was pretending not to look at the various girls loitering around. Was this her guy? If it was, he was welcome to stay where he was, looking nervous, for as long as he wanted.

  Two was still comfortably held in the afterglow of her heroin, but this had passed enough for her to feel a twinge of annoyance. The nervous ones were always a big pain in the ass. They needed constant reassurance. It was almost like babysitting, except it paid more, and you skipped right to the part where the father tries to cop a feel on the ride home.

  But no, the guy across the street was heading toward another girl whose name Two didn’t know, and who looked nothing like Two. The guy who had contacted Darren had known exactly who he was looking for. This couldn’t be her client.

  Darren insisted they call them “clients.” Never “Johns” or, God forbid, “tricks.” Two didn’t understand why it mattered, but she supposed that girls who were forced to behave in a professional manner when it came to the little things, would do so instinctively for the big things.

  A woman that Two knew wandered over. Tall, with jet black skin, Janice was gorgeous. She was one of the few girls in Darren’s employ whom he didn’t own. No drugs, no desperation. Janice was paying her way through law school with money she earned on her back. She was loud and quick to laughter. Two liked her immensely.

  “’Sup girl? You look evil tonight! What’s the occasion?”

  “Client request.” Two gave a ‘you know how it is’ grin. Janice’s look said she’d been there.

  “You best go on, then. Look sick to me, but I guess the goth thing just isn’t my style.”

  Two sighed. “My style’s whatever I’m told it is.”

  Janice inspected her for a minute
. “You’ve been down lately, Two. Bad times, I know. For what it’s worth, I always liked you. Never thought you deserved this. You need to figure out how to fight through this drug bullshit.”

  Two shrugged. “Thanks. It doesn’t matter though, Janice. I don’t care anymore. I don’t know how I ever lived without it, now. I’ve gotta go.”

  Janice nodded, watched Two leave, and headed for her own corner, shaking her head.

  * * *

  Two dragged at her cigarette, blew smoke out into the October night. No rain tonight. The moon was bright, not the bloody, bloated full October moon that would arrive later in the month. It had been a hot September, but edges of winter were lurking on the wind. The nights would be cold, before long.

  Two used this time, normally, to prepare herself for the indignities ahead. Tonight, though... tonight was different. It was more than the simple promise of an extra ration. In truth, this was already slipping her mind. Tonight her heart was beating a little too fast. Her lungs pulled in air differently. Smoke which had not bothered her in years made her cough. She felt shaky, without shaking. Nervous though calm.

  Tonight felt new.

  The client, whoever he was, was late. Two had been standing at her corner for nearly half an hour. Three cigarettes consumed, she loaded up on nicotine. She guessed it would do no good, that she’d be dying for one within a few hours, but the instinct was always to try. It never struck Two as odd that she was, and had been, as much a slave to these little white sticks as ever she would be to heroin. It didn’t bother her. Their death was slow, the changes they wrought on her body not so terribly obvious. Two had not gone for more than a day without a cigarette since her eleventh birthday. They were as much a part of her life now as breathing.