They were infected now. They hurt.
But not as much as her heart.
Did clowns have breakable hearts? she wondered as she reached for the razor Lance had left in the sink along with stubble and soap scum. He was a sloppy pig. But he was a beautiful pig. And that voice... God, she loved to hear Lance Reno sing and wail on that guitar. Loved when he told her that he loved her. Even when he hurt her.
Fresh tears leaked down her cheeks. Amazingly hot. How could anything that hot come out of her when she felt so very, very cold inside? The tears burned her eyes. And made even more clown tears.
Everybody loved clowns. She stared at her garish reflection and took another hit off the joint she'd left burning in the soap dish. So why not her? Why didn't anyone really love her for her? And no one did. Especially not her father. Lance had explained it all.
The razor was wet and crusted with beard stubble and remnants of tiny popped bubbles farther down the handle. She held it up under the stark bathroom lighting. Studied it through drifting smoke as she touched the thin blade to her finger, drew it slowly across the pad. She flinched when it sliced her skin. Was amazed she felt pain as brilliant red blood oozed from the thin cut and dripped down her finger.
Like a tear.
How many tears does a person have? she wondered as she made an experimental swipe across the inside of her left wrist with the back of the razor. Was there like ... a limit? Was everyone born with a specified number and when they used them all up, they couldn't cry anymore? It was that way with blood. Everyone had a certain amount—a quota—and when you lost it, you couldn't live anymore.
She took another deep, dizzying drag of some really prime Colombian weed. Set it on the lip of the sink with a shaking hand. And picked up the razor again.
How easy it would be to swipe it across her wrist. How horribly, horribly easy. No one to stop her. No one to care.
No one to care.
Why would anyone care about her? Even Eve had sent her away. She was bad, that's why. She knew that was why. She wasn't worth anyone's time. Not worth the trouble.
She felt so lonely. And so tired. Her head started to swim. Gripping the lip of the marble vanity for balance, she stumbled out of the bathroom and into the hotel suite's master bedroom.
She fell onto the bed, rolled to her back. Blinked drowsily up at the ceiling.
And wondered which limit she would deplete first.
Tears or blood.
So much alike.
No one seemed to be able to tell the difference in hers. No one cared which she ran out of first. No one cared that she was all alone. Especially not her father.
Lance had left her again. He'd be back. When he needed money, needed to score, wanted to get off, he'd be back. In an hour or two. Maybe more. He'd tell her he loved her. Stroke her like she was a lost kitten, lay out a line of blow, and coax her into snorting it. He'd even hold her head when she got sick.
Why couldn't he just love her straight? Why couldn't anybody just love her !
She wanted to go home. Even more, she wanted a home to go to. Someone to miss her when she was gone. Someone to give a damn that she was so unhappy. So desperately sad.
And lost.
She laughed, then cried. Lost soul. Lost person. She wasn't even sure she knew where she was. Wasn't sure anymore if she was safe. They'd been partying. Gambling at the tables. Lance had lost. Big-time. She'd told him to stop. He'd just smiled, that tight, icy smile that scared her. And then he'd grabbed her arm and dragged her back to this room, taken her clothes, ripped the phone out of the wall.
And left her.
Alone again. Alone always.
Her fingers went lax around the razor still clutched in her hand. She passed out to the feel of cool sheets against her naked skin and the tickle of hot tears leaking across her tattooed tear, then dripping into her
But not as much as her heart.
Did clowns have breakable hearts? she wondered as she reached for the razor Lance had left in the sink along with stubble and soap scum. He was a sloppy pig. But he was a beautiful pig. And that voice... God, she loved to hear Lance Reno sing and wail on that guitar. Loved when he told her that he loved her. Even when he hurt her.
Fresh tears leaked down her cheeks. Amazingly hot. How could anything that hot come out of her when she felt so very, very cold inside? The tears burned her eyes. And made even more clown tears.
Everybody loved clowns. She stared at her garish reflection and took another hit off the joint she'd left burning in the soap dish. So why not her? Why didn't anyone really love her for her? And no one did. Especially not her father. Lance had explained it all.
The razor was wet and crusted with beard stubble and remnants of tiny popped bubbles farther down the handle. She held it up under the stark bathroom lighting. Studied it through drifting smoke as she touched the thin blade to her finger, drew it slowly across the pad. She flinched when it sliced her skin. Was amazed she felt pain as brilliant red blood oozed from the thin cut and dripped down her finger.
Like a tear.
How many tears does a person have? she wondered as she made an experimental swipe across the inside of her left wrist with the back of the razor. Was there like ... a limit? Was everyone born with a specified number and when they used them all up, they couldn't cry anymore? It was that way with blood. Everyone had a certain amount—a quota—and when you lost it, you couldn't live anymore.
She took another deep, dizzying drag of some really prime Colombian weed. Set it on the lip of the sink with a shaking hand. And picked up the razor again.
How easy it would be to swipe it across her wrist. How horribly, horribly easy. No one to stop her. No one to care.
No one to care.
Why would anyone care about her? Even Eve had sent her away. She was bad, that's why. She knew that was why. She wasn't worth anyone's time. Not worth the trouble.
She felt so lonely. And so tired. Her head started to swim. Gripping the lip of the marble vanity for balance, she stumbled out of the bathroom and into the hotel suite's master bedroom.
She fell onto the bed, rolled to her back. Blinked drowsily up at the ceiling.
And wondered which limit she would deplete first.
Tears or blood.
So much alike.
No one seemed to be able to tell the difference in hers. No one cared which she ran out of first. No one cared that she was all alone. Especially not her father.
Lance had left her again. He'd be back. When he needed money, needed to score, wanted to get off, he'd be back. In an hour or two. Maybe more. He'd tell her he loved her. Stroke her like she was a lost kitten, lay out a line of blow, and coax her into snorting it. He'd even hold her head when she got sick.
Why couldn't he just love her straight? Why couldn't anybody just love her !
She wanted to go home. Even more, she wanted a home to go to. Someone to miss her when she was gone. Someone to give a damn that she was so unhappy. So desperately sad.
And lost.
She laughed, then cried. Lost soul. Lost person. She wasn't even sure she knew where she was. Wasn't sure anymore if she was safe. They'd been partying. Gambling at the tables. Lance had lost. Big-time. She'd told him to stop. He'd just smiled, that tight, icy smile that scared her. And then he'd grabbed her arm and dragged her back to this room, taken her clothes, ripped the phone out of the wall.
And left her.
Alone again. Alone always.
Her fingers went lax around the razor still clutched in her hand. She passed out to the feel of cool sheets against her naked skin and the tickle of hot tears leaking across her tattooed tear, then dripping into her
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