Breathing Underwater

How can you describe what you're feeling right now?

It's like trying to breathe underwater with a weight attached to your foot.

You can't; then you panic and struggle and eventually drown.

You're drowning under emotion.

It's an odd sensation, because you've never been near water before except where it covers the streets of this city and flows from the sky.

You feel like screaming at her for doing this to herself, for becoming like everyone else.

You want to slither back under the cover of darkness again and forget about the girl whose father was a Repo Man.

You want to take her with you, because, as much as you don't want to admit it, you've grown attached to this girl and don't want her to ruin her life like this.

But then, you think, isn't her life screwed up enough?

You almost feel sorry for her.

The girl had lost everything; her parents, her godmother. Her life went to Hell in a hand basket.

Only that hand basket is black and dead and blue from that drug that everyone still needs.

But she gets to forget, at least for a little while, because of that drug that comes in a little glass vial and goes into the gun like a battery.

How your own words come back to haunt you.

You think you're her friend and now you've become her dealer. Times and people change quickly.

But, in a way, you're almost grateful for it.

That way, people never have a chance to really get to know you, fully understand you, and that's what's kept you safe all this time.

She appears, like she has for the last month now, credits in her shaking hands, eyes pleading for the drug she has grown accustomed to. Her clothing now closely resembles that of the other scalpel sluts, and her attitude has changed as well; she is more confident now.

Your eyes narrow, as they always do, and your gloved hand reaches into your satchel and produces the vial. The blue substance, as familiar to it as you are, seems to burn through the gloves this time. It seems wrong to give this to her, but she has credits and you need them, from whichever willing (or so it may seem) hand offers.

You grab the money, and, for a moment, you feel disgusted with yourself. But then the feeling passes and you load the gun. She walks forward, somewhat unsteadily but confidently, and leans against the wall, staring at you with dark eyes. You look away, instead focusing on the gun and the drug that you will be injecting into the girl. You place it against her and shoot, not thinking because you've done this enough times (Hell, you could probably do it blindfolded). She arches, then slumps down to the ground, where she sits a moment, regaining her breath and now semiconscious.

You reach to help her up, and that voice inside your head laughs. She accepts and stands, then waves your hand away and smirks. She purrs a thank you, and then walks slowly out of the alley back to wherever she came from.

You watch her form become swallowed up by the smoke and darkness, and then return to your work.

But you still have her on your mind.

You don't see her the next week, and it worries you slightly. But it's not like she's your only customer, so you continue your work. After all, a Grave robber's work is never done, because even though you never touch the stuff yourself, there are so many that do and either don't have a lot of money or can't be bothered to pay full price.

Amber Sweet stumbles slowly out of the alley with her two bodyguards. You sometimes think they are too stupid to actually realize what's happening half the time, and that makes you smile grimly.

Being the last sale of the night, partly because you are out of Zydrate and partly because you don't want to deal with all the whining and groveling and whoring the addicts do, you make your way back to your dumpster. As you pass an alleyway, you see a girl lying on the ground.

You bend down and remove your kit containing various extraction tools, laying it out before you. Luckily you're under a street light, so you can see what you're doing. After removing a large needle, you turn the body over.

You almost drop the syringe.

Shilo Wallace is laying there before you, blood dried on her pale skin. Her shirt has been cut away, and there is a large cut running from her belly button running up towards her neck. Her heart has been removed and the cavity reminds you of an eye, accusation burned into it.

You stare at her for a moment in silence, mourning the loss of a friend.

Then the moment is over and you stick the needle in and extract the Zydrate, guilt rising up again.

You finish, put your tools away, place the vial into your satchel, and stand. Looking at the body, you bend down again and close the eyes, then back slowly out of the alleyway.

Goodbye, Kid. I'm sorry, you think, then walk down the street again.

You get to your dumpster and jump in, removing the satchel and setting it beside you. You take off your gloves, and run a shaking hand through your hair, then rub your eyes. They are wet with tears you didn't know you were shedding.

You sigh and then take out the credits you made, counting them before placing them back in the bag.

Then you close your eyes and attempt to sleep.

It doesn't come easily.