Wasted

She lay shivering on the bed, the ugly grey light of morning cutting through the condensation on the windows and spotlighting the smoke that blanketed the room.

She had no idea how long she’d been staring at the ceiling. When she thought about it she realised she had no idea how long she’d been awake. The previous night had passed in a blur. One moment there were people there, the next she was alone and cold on the bed. There was no duvet, just a thin, stained sheet.

She remembered being fucked, didn’t know by who or if she’d enjoyed it. She assumed it was all right like all the other times. Maybe she’d just stared at the ceiling then too.

She sat up, reached out and lit a cigarette. The first drag was like swallowing fire and it sent her into spasms of coughing. When the coughing had stopped she smoked more, the filter clutched between gnarled fingers, deep black filth under the fingernails which were thick and yellowed.

She looked around the room. The formica table, the overflowing ashtray, the carpet which was more dirt than fabric leading into the kitchenette which was home to dirty plates and pots, ancient pizza boxes and takeaway bags. Against this backdrop the tinfoil trays of rock-hard rice and greasy pages from months old Mirrors were more decoration than litter.

It was a long way from the good times. She coughed again, almost swallowing the greeny-black lump of phlegm which shot into her mouth like a bullet. She gagged a bit, spat it on the floor, smoked again. Her tongue rubbed her teeth. How long had  it been since she brushed them? Not days, into weeks now. This wasn’t how it used to be.

She remembered the parties, the excitement, the glitz and glamour. Limos, recording studios, TV channels, radio stations, magazine shoots, people to make her look good. Her hair, her make-up, her clothes. The buzz and excitement meant working 18 hours a day with constant travel was never a problem. There were people to tell her how great she was and when she was tired there was always somebody with something to provide a little extra energy.

Tours, photoshoots, showbiz friends, so many friends. Who knew you could meet so many great people so quickly? This was no Andy Warhol fifteen minutes. This was going to be long-term. This was no flash in the pan. This was not going to end up in a bedsit on the Seven Sisters Road drinking from an open can of Stella first thing in the morning. The friends were forever, not hangers-on who cut themselves loose at the first hint of trouble.

She looked at the veins on her legs, the scabs on the inside her arms, the tremor in her hands which was getting worse every time she remembered to take note of it. Her feet were filthy, the crusted sludge between her toes pained what was left of what used to be her. She finished the cigarette, dropped it into the can of Stella and sat with her head in her hands, drifting in the haze of her muddled thoughts. It was only when she took another drink of the warm, flat beer that she remembered what she’d done with the smoke.

She began to cry. No sound, just tears cleaning a path down the grime that covered her face. She lay back on the bed and folded into her sorrow. As she shivered her way into sleep Yazz wished there was a song with a message she could take heart from.

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This entry was posted on Thursday, October 8th, 2009 at 8:35 pmand is filed under Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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