Cure
She had a style all her own, respectful and pure/ I was sick in the head for her, and there wasn't a cure
I saw her out on the street.
I never lived in a good neighborhood, but I can't complain. I had a good mom and… well, my dad wasn't that much of a hunk of shit. I pretty much grew up good, got myself in my fair share of trouble, but I could take care of myself.
All I can say is that there were a lot of 'pretty ladies' out on the street. That's what I call them. They're the girls who come up to your car and ask what you want. They girls who want money for what they give you. They are always pretty. Some prettier than others.
Makes you wonder why they have to ask someone.
Makes you wonder why someone would want to do that to themselves.
I saw her out on the street though.
And she wasn't a pretty lady.
She was beautiful.
She walked down the street fully clothes, no skimpy outfit that pretty ladies wore. Reminded me of someone on TV, giving a speech, dressed all nice and fancy. Tight lips, cropped hair, dark tan.
And all the pretty ladies were very jealous.
She started hanging around the neighborhood, because her family had abandoned her. She had gone out on her own. She hung around with me and the guys and the pretty ladies that were always coming around. I called her Princess once and she smacked me. I hit her right back. And then she smacked me again.
"My name is Courtney." Raised her eyebrows at me, acting like I couldn't beat the shit out of her.
Maybe she believed it.
I don't know why, but I smiled at her. "My name is Duncan."
She didn't give me a smile back. Just looked at me like I was trash off the street. Didn't say another word to me. Just snatched the cigarette from my hand and took a drag.
I liked her a lot.
I liked walking around with her. She never let me touch her, never talked to me as sweetly as the pretty ladies did. I liked the way she talked to me, the way she sometimes blushed when I said things, the way we would share a cigarette sometimes, how she would pretend like she just felt sleepy and accidently fell asleep on my couch.
Like she had somewhere to go. She never let me know she was falling. And she was everything I'd never known.
One day she showed up and said that she needed somewhere to stay. That was all she had to say. We walked inside, away from the bad guys and pretty ladies and to where we were alone. I put out a lighter and she pulled out a pack of smokes, smiling at me.
That was when I knew I was in love with her.
She didn't understand the pretty ladies. Said she couldn't let people touch her like that. Not just some guy, some guy who would give her a couple hundred for something she didn't want to give. Maybe if she loved the guy, if he loved her. Maybe.
I couldn't bring myself to speak a word. I wanted to touch her like that, wanted myself inside her, wanted her to be mine, wanted her to love me.
But I just smoked my cigarette and blew out a few rings.
She stayed with me in my tiny house on the tiny street. She liked to talk about how she once had a future. How her dad died and her mom liked to binge soda's that weren't really soda's but worse. How she was thrown out of the house. Because she was touched.
Someone touched her. Touched her like people liked to touch the pretty ladies.
But she didn't ask them to. She begged them not to. But they didn't listen.
And then she got knocked up. And her mom kicked her out.
And then Courtney starts crying. Because she couldn't take care of her kid. Because she gave it up. Gave it up for someone else to take care of. Because she had to drop out of high school and run away. And because every time she saw the pretty ladies she remembered the man who broke her.
Today, a day like any other day, she cries. She cries and cries and I hold her close. And we stare out the window and watch because she says she likes it when it rains.
"Like God is cleaning us. A clean slate."
I whisper in her hair that I love her.
She doesn't say anything back. She just kisses my neck and leaves it there, her lips on my skin, burning it and making it cold and hot and then burning like fire again.
She wants to find her kid, and I want to make her mine. We sit in the house, sharing our smokes, but it won't ever be enough. We both have things that we want.
But she don't want me touching her the way the pretty ladies get touched. She's too scared.
Says she doesn't know if she can handle it. She loves me, she says. She wants me, she says. But no, not yet.
She loves me, though. That's enough.
She's beautiful. I love her, I want her, I need her.
And there's no cure. Not for her.
But I'm not complaining. I could share a cigarette with her forever, her arms around me, lips pressed to my neck. Because I love her.
And I like to believe that it's enough.
A/N: *cries* I've been listening to some sad songs. Decided to be horrible. :(
For all the questions that I KNOW someone is bound to ask:
'Pretty Ladies': Prostitutes
'Soda's': Alcohol (I got this idea from 'Hey Arnold'… but it was 'Smoothies' before…)
'Touched': I don't think I have to explain it.
The whole story was kind of (emphasis on KIND OF) based off of the song 'You Never Know' by Immortal Technique (AKA hardest rapper ever). {Lyrics used at the top} I really, really like this story, and I don't think hate is appropriate. So, for the first time ever *GASP*, no flames allowed.
Thanks for reading! :D