AN: When I was watching Stranger than Fiction, I was struck with the beauty with which Emma Thompson talked about the look on the woman's face after she jumped. It stuck with me and then when I was in a melancholic attitude, I began to think of this. I will warn you now that this is sad, terrifying, and probably too honest. You shouldn't read this unless you think you can handle it. One way to probably understand it is by watching the AMC program, Intervention. I have never experienced any of these horrors in my life, but I still feel horrible for the people that do. You should be warned that there are references to eating problems, drug addiction, prostitution, and suicide. And as ironic as this may sound, read and enjoy.

Precious Little

As my trembling hand releases the plunger, it leaves my arm and the rush swells over me, the tide pulls me down.

I collapse onto my back, the ecstasy of the feeling blossoming all throughout my body.

I lay next to the naked man whose name I do not know and revel in rapture.

When he wakes up, he will leave and never remember me. I will just be a blip in his many excursions.

I forget to remove the elastic, and my arm swells a little. I pry at it with numb fingers smiling and crying.

Eventually, he moves in his sleep, waking himself to the horror around him.

Of course, we don't consider it horror anymore.

But you might, with these bed sheets stained beyond recognition, this floor covered with abandoned clothes strewn about like grass on a hill.

I gave him sex for a fix.

Sex, fix, sex, fix. The words roll off my tongue, losing meaning again.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbow.

He would probably have been too distasteful to look at under normal circumstances, with his rotten teeth, his cruel eyes, his lanky hair.

But in my haze, I giggle.

His eyes burn cold and he lashes out, catching me across the face.

I will not feel this, not even when I can, I won't.

He growls and sneers as he throws himself from the bed, viciously grabbing a pair of jeans that he somehow knew were his.

He jerks them on and leaves.

I just turn over, the sheets twisting around my own emaciated form.

Sheets feel amazing enough with out floating, but when you're so light, they feel like gossamer wings, meant to carry me away.

I smile and tears leak back into the sheet's stained mess.

I am giddy and terrified.

The front door opens again and my friend enters, baring bags of food I will not consume.

She does not do my job.

But I give her parts of the fix anyway.

She leaves the things on the table.

I hear their hefty thump.

She enters the room and sits on the edge of the bed.

I'm still enthralled with the feeling of the sheets and she smiles.

Click. Click. She lights a cigarette and takes a drag.

She crawls up the stretch of the mattress and it creaks.

She lays next to me in the space that the man just left.

It has always been her space.

She kisses me gently on the forehead and sets her head in the dip of pillow.

I steal the cigarette and take a drag.

The smoke swirls in my dancing eyes.

She just smiles again and kisses my withered cheek.

I sit up, smiling and place the stick back in her mouth.

The sheet settles around my hips but I do not notice my nakedness and she doesn't say anything.

She does try to hand me a shirt, but I'm already traipsing to the bathroom.

I feel the cold tiles underneath my feet and crawl into the tub.

My skinny body curls up, my bones bumping the plastic edges.

Ever since I can remember in this life, I wake up in the tub.

It will be the same tomorrow.

When I do wake up, I am grateful that it is dark.

My friend knows that I don't like the light.

That doesn't mean I like the dark though.

I turn on the water and wait till it's tepid.

I sit under the shower stream for at least an hour.

When I pull myself out, I do not dry or clothe myself.

I don't keep things like that in the bathroom. Sometimes I even forget to put toilet paper.

My body shivers.

My beautiful, skinny, little body is too cold.

The fat that I hate is not on my body to protect me.

I reach my room and dry myself off.

Among the articles of clothing I fine a skirt with a rip and a shirt that's too tight.

I don't bother with unders. They just get in the way.

I put on strappy heels and admire the handiwork.

I grab a tiny wrist bag and make sure I have enough money for bus fare.

I leave the apartment, not bothering to lock it.

There's nothing there for me.

I stand and wait at the bus station.

When it finally arrives, I get on, but I do not have to pay fare today.

The driver is someone I know.

He looks at me pityingly.

I just flip my hair and sit down.

I have a circuit that I complete each week.

Today's destination is across town, on the wrong side of all tracks.

When we get to that station, I do a finger wave at the driver.

He flinches away from my gesture.

I know that I should be hurt by this,

But I'm not.

I get off, forgetting him the second my feet hit the concrete.

My heels clack, clack, clack down the sidewalk.

I make sure to hold myself up, using everything I have.

Some people stare in wonder, in lust, in disgust.

I enter the little club that is set back from the rest of the soot-covered pavement.

It is still early in the evening, but it's already packed.

It always is.

The bodies dancing, weaving, touching, breathing all around me create a roiling mass of sweat, breath and pressure.

I press myself against as many people as I can.

Some people recoil.

Some touch back.

They are all so filled, so glowing.

Their life is so bright.

And then I'm on the other side of the crowd.

I am standing next to the wall.

This wall has had people write on it, pee on it, paint on it, lean against it, lay next to it, rub it, be on it.

I press my back to it. There are other people on it too.

I let my arms rise, rubbing against the wall with so much life in it.

It is wonderful how textured it feels.

My hand brushes against the arm of a man leaning against it.

He turns to me.

His eyes are dark.

His build is strong.

There are so many things that would have made him beautiful

Except he was here.

I look at him, not smiling or glaring.

He takes my out-stretched hand and leads me to the floor.

He pulls me tightly against him.

His hands encase my hips and we grind.

This is so primal, so lust-filled, so carnal.

I lock my arms around his neck and when he kisses me,

I am already numb and ready.

He nearly shoves people to the ground as we go deeper and deeper till we are in a back room.

I am sitting on a counter, high enough for him, comfortable enough for me.

He is intense and driven.

But this is not making love.

It does not take more than 15 minutes.

When it ends, he hands me a little vial.

Oh what a precious little vial.

He thrusts one more time, satisfying himself.

He lets himself go and if had not been so long since I had eaten, I might have cared.

But when you don't eat,

You don't bleed.

His pants zip closed and he is gone, nothing but that precious little vial left of our exchange.

I clutch it to my chest.

I set my skirt with its little rip straight and right my twisted top.

I tuck the precious little vial into my wrist bag and go out.

I am ready to leave, my regular dose held securely in my bag.

But I stop.

I know I should keep moving.

But I see him.

This puny, skinny man with a rat's face sitting there nervously.

It's too easy.

He must be new to this whole game.

He has a vial.

It's too easy to see.

I take the chance.

I walk across the floor and throw myself into his lap, straddling his waist.

His little hips are not as narrow as mine I think to myself in a gloating manner.

His hands settle on my hips and he looks at me,

Licking his lips, waiting.

I lock my arms around his neck

And when he kisses me, it is nothing but a touching of lips.

When he touches me, it is nothing but skin brushing.

And when he greedily takes,

I have already given it away.

His excitement shows quickly and I take the cue.

I extricate myself and hold his hand as I drag him through the crowd towards those back rooms.

When we reach a room, he is just as fast as the other man, his actions clumsier.

But at the end, he doesn't give me that precious little vial fast enough.

I grab his arm, my nails digging into the flesh.

I whisper in his ear.

I am 17. I will turn you in.

He pales, he shakes, he breathes too quickly.

When he presses the vial into my hand, he is cold like my smile and I step away.

He is too stupid to realize that if I turned him in, it would only harm me.

But he runs out the door in fear.

I clutch the precious little vial to me, smiling and gleeful.

I slip it in with the other one.

I go back to the crowded front room with its bodies.

I press myself against them again, feeling, touching, taking.

Some take and feel and others push away.

But I am at the door and none of them matter anymore.

When I get back on the bus there is a new driver and she can see me, through me.

I pay my way and settle into a seat, my little bag with its precious little vials clutched in my hand.

Back at the stop next to my home, I exit with excitement.

I climb up the stairs and go into my little apartment.

My friend is there again, her picture clutched in her hand.

She hides it.

I know who's in it though.

But I do not say anything.

I just pull out the two precious little vials.

Her face breaks into the semblance of a smile.

Good one hun, she says.

I press a vial into her hand and then hug her, draping myself around her.

I kiss her temple and smile.

She holds it tightly in her fist and presses that fist into my back as she hugs me.

I jump up though, as lightning courses through my body with need.

I have never had a whole vial and these precious little vials are filled something I've never seen before.

I look around for a new needle, rifling through drawers and cabinets.

I finally find one and sink to the floor, the tingle of want running through me.

It is a dance of fingers as I empty the precious little vial into the syringe.

The plunger pulled back with grace and the vial set aside to roll away.

I set the little thing in my lap and my legs quiver and it punctures tiny little holes in me.

Blood blossoms up from the wounds.

I smile with giddy relief.

I find a piece of elastic and tie it tightly around my arm.

I pick up the little needle and push it gently into the vein that nearly pops from my arm.

The plunger descends and the mixture enters my veins.

Within seconds,

It's glorious.

The initial hit rocks my world, tilts it and causes cascades of lights and colors.

I stare around in a daze.

It's so beautiful, My mouth murmurs of its own accord.

My friend laughs.

The needle has fallen from my arm and it clatters to the floor in a ringing of jangles.

I stare for a second then fling my arms out in a wild spin.

I am twirling, dizzy and desperate.

There is something amazing about the world now.

I stop spinning and stare at the window.

My attention is diverted for a split-second to my friend making eggs.

It really is so beautiful.

She nods.

Suddenly without much thought, I want out.

I grab the window, it's latch darting from under my grip.

I fumble and play with it till the window lifts.

The sketchy fire escape outside is cold and creaking.

I climb out start spinning again.

It's so beautiful! I cry from my position.

A woman looks up at me in confusion.

The sun is setting and it's blaze consumes the horizon.

Careful hun! My friend draws closer.

I grab the railing and stop twirling dizzily.

I look out over everything, the rooftops, the chimneys, the trees.

A gust of wind blows through the air.

It lifts my hair and plays with it.

It looks dazzling this way, even without the previous luster.

I feel so light.

I feel like I weigh nothing.

I weigh nothing.

I know the wind can carry me.

I can fly.

I want to show her.

Look! I can fly!

I do not hear what her cries mean as I pull myself onto the railing.

The wind holds me in its arms.

I spread my wings.

I take a step off.