There was a tear in her womb where the Junkie Stone had once sat, cold and hard and leaking junk juice like defrosting meat leaked blood.
She felt exhilarated and it took her back to the good times, those rare times when the place was safe and maybe there was someone who cared, so you could take the joy with no deep hard gnaw of worry.
That was not what she would take to the Night Brethren. She would take the bad times. The times she woke up with long, deep cuts in her arms which took forever to heal. The times too many when she started the day with a sore cunt and no idea, no fucking idea, who'd been up her. The loss of family and future, the filth she'd poured out; all of that she'd give them.
She needed help. Six helpers. Not one functioning addict. Not a businessman, not a mother of three with a talent for makeup. What she wanted were the ones who'd lost so much they had regained innocence.
She found:
A man so close to death he had rats gnawing at his naked, grey toes.
A woman skin and bones, all her flesh sucked out by the junk.
A girl full of spunk, full of spunk 22 times a day, all of it for the junk.
An old man. Five kids, the grandkids, every last one of them, curse his name like he was a disease.
A boy, all pretty with his pale skin, his pink lips, this boy lost all soul and brain cells. Toothless, gummy, like a baby pretty baby.
And the last one; she went home for that one. Her sister, a ten-year shut-in with the shit delivered and sometimes food, the stench of the baby who burned to death like a flesh bonfire settled in the house.
That was seven, and they walked on, forward, to fuck over the Night Brethren.
(Kaaron Warren)
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