Her wet footsteps, slick, patted across the the grainy concrete. The black tarmac.
Legs soiled in dried blood, hands trembling, stuttering, fumbling for the chipped and weathered wall of the viaduct.
A rush and clatter startles her from her midnight jaunt. Strobing lights of the train above, steel juttering, chalk board scraping of rails.
The night breeze flicked at her ragged cloak, a stretch of filth flecked fabric. White nylon. Dried blood. Her eyes burning a deep salty red. Lips cracked and sore, a rouge of wet fluid than Chanel.
She shivers and hobbles into the dead shadows of the viaduct, fearful of the jeering approaching. Louts drunk on an evening of larger, stumbling home to the tunes of another disposable pop icon. High on the excitement of the last club they had left. 42nd Street, Norwegian Blue, Mutz Nutz. All centres of that comerce, of consumption, of lust, and breeding grounds for hate.
The men passed, their trail dotted by another Budweiser bottles discarded and smashed on the asphalt. She continued her walk.
One bare foot at a time. Picking over the broken glass, and knife-like stones, discarded kebabs spilt like some overgrown ameoba. Small toes sore and grazed. Each step and effort of will. Her mind filled with a dark, thicken soot of confusion, of unbeing.
She stops again and holds a hand to her head. Her clammy hand sticking to the matted locks of mousey hair. The power of unconciousness dragged her to a side alleyway, huddled in between tall walls of cast stone and shafts of mandarin light.
Her body convulsed and she leerched forward.
"Hello?" A call from the street. A young girl. Tight jeans, and a asymmetric bob. Stark eye shadow and a series of tops and t-shirts, layered. Indie. The uber cool of Manchester, stuck together from items from Top Shop and Urban Outfitters. "Hello?"
The mylon draped figure heaves again, the body ejecting more of its contents onto the patchwork ground of concrete, tiles and tarmac, relaid over years as pipes and wires and cables were rerouted and repaired.
Louds slaps of body matter channel down the alley.
The young girl grimaces and steps forward, her good deed for the day. Samaritan purpose driving her. The stench of bile hits her, clawing at her gagging reflex.
"Hello?" She peers forward at the slumped figure in the corner. The ragdoll fabricated from hospital bed sheets. "Are you, you alright? Need help?" She tip toes forward. Her eyes wide, a meerkat.
The Indie shivers as another foul stream of biomatter erupts from the womans mouth. The girl stops. A dear in the head lights watching the glint of blood seep across the ground and flush the tattered edges of the cloak. Crimson and bone. Heart and soul. Vitae and death. The girl spots the form of the vomit, of the grizzly mess. Flesh and bone and hair. A partial digestion of creatures, now a soup of acids, lipids, cartillage.
The woman turns, her locks, a gorgon's nest of vipers. Eyes a piercing violet, the skin torn and plucked away at the edges of the sockets and eyelids. "Come my dear. Your Charity is not outweighed by your vanity." The gutteral witches tongue strikes out.
The young girl stammer, eye welling up with a stream of chloride fear. One step back. Then another. then another. Keep it together she thinks.
Too late.
She turns face to face with the devils concubine. Looking back into the pools of the beasts soul. Her lip quivers.
"Shall we see what little girls are made of?"
Legs soiled in dried blood, hands trembling, stuttering, fumbling for the chipped and weathered wall of the viaduct.
A rush and clatter startles her from her midnight jaunt. Strobing lights of the train above, steel juttering, chalk board scraping of rails.
The night breeze flicked at her ragged cloak, a stretch of filth flecked fabric. White nylon. Dried blood. Her eyes burning a deep salty red. Lips cracked and sore, a rouge of wet fluid than Chanel.
She shivers and hobbles into the dead shadows of the viaduct, fearful of the jeering approaching. Louts drunk on an evening of larger, stumbling home to the tunes of another disposable pop icon. High on the excitement of the last club they had left. 42nd Street, Norwegian Blue, Mutz Nutz. All centres of that comerce, of consumption, of lust, and breeding grounds for hate.
The men passed, their trail dotted by another Budweiser bottles discarded and smashed on the asphalt. She continued her walk.
One bare foot at a time. Picking over the broken glass, and knife-like stones, discarded kebabs spilt like some overgrown ameoba. Small toes sore and grazed. Each step and effort of will. Her mind filled with a dark, thicken soot of confusion, of unbeing.
She stops again and holds a hand to her head. Her clammy hand sticking to the matted locks of mousey hair. The power of unconciousness dragged her to a side alleyway, huddled in between tall walls of cast stone and shafts of mandarin light.
Her body convulsed and she leerched forward.
"Hello?" A call from the street. A young girl. Tight jeans, and a asymmetric bob. Stark eye shadow and a series of tops and t-shirts, layered. Indie. The uber cool of Manchester, stuck together from items from Top Shop and Urban Outfitters. "Hello?"
The mylon draped figure heaves again, the body ejecting more of its contents onto the patchwork ground of concrete, tiles and tarmac, relaid over years as pipes and wires and cables were rerouted and repaired.
Louds slaps of body matter channel down the alley.
The young girl grimaces and steps forward, her good deed for the day. Samaritan purpose driving her. The stench of bile hits her, clawing at her gagging reflex.
"Hello?" She peers forward at the slumped figure in the corner. The ragdoll fabricated from hospital bed sheets. "Are you, you alright? Need help?" She tip toes forward. Her eyes wide, a meerkat.
The Indie shivers as another foul stream of biomatter erupts from the womans mouth. The girl stops. A dear in the head lights watching the glint of blood seep across the ground and flush the tattered edges of the cloak. Crimson and bone. Heart and soul. Vitae and death. The girl spots the form of the vomit, of the grizzly mess. Flesh and bone and hair. A partial digestion of creatures, now a soup of acids, lipids, cartillage.
The woman turns, her locks, a gorgon's nest of vipers. Eyes a piercing violet, the skin torn and plucked away at the edges of the sockets and eyelids. "Come my dear. Your Charity is not outweighed by your vanity." The gutteral witches tongue strikes out.
The young girl stammer, eye welling up with a stream of chloride fear. One step back. Then another. then another. Keep it together she thinks.
Too late.
She turns face to face with the devils concubine. Looking back into the pools of the beasts soul. Her lip quivers.
"Shall we see what little girls are made of?"
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