Author's Note: I own nothing affiliated with Repo! The Genetic Opera, aside from the usual merch.
Anyway, Merry Christmas if you celebrate it! Have an Amber drabble. I never really thought I'd write about Amber. Go figure.
God help me. She's heard her father say that when he's forgotten she's in the room. Three words she associates with him, and only him. No one else says that, and she surmised when she was younger that it was an "old person thing." As she got older, she learned what these three little words used to mean. It was a supplication to an unseen and supposedly omnipotent being for assistance, and she had always wondered since why anyone would waste their breath on this phrase.
Now she sits slumped against a brick wall in some alley that's too far from but still too close to home, and she can barely see the figures in front of her. Her vision clears slowly, slowly. There's the man, if you could call him that, who made her this way. I can help with that, he said. He's telling the same lie to some freak with pink hair who's practically climbing him to get to the little glass vial in his hand. He laughs now, deep in his throat, and her head starts spinning again. She looks straight in front of her, and across the alley is this grizzled hooker with bleach-blond hair who's just coming down from her own high. The hooker grins, showing yellow-gray teeth, and Amber shudders and vows to get rid of all her blond wigs. I'm never doing this again.
She tries to stand, but the ground is softer than she remembers it being, too soft to push off of. Or maybe her hands aren't made of flesh and muscle and bone anymore; maybe the zydrate turned them into rags filled with air. She can't guarantee that she could walk, anyway, even if she manages to stand. There's broken glass under her hand, and even as she watches red trickle through cracks in the concrete, she decides it must not be that bad. After all, it's not like hurts. Still, it's a little disconcerting, especially when a matching red trickle drops to the neckline of her corset from the skin right below her left eye. Should get that taken care of soon, she thinks. Her new cheekbones won't be quite as effective if they're covered by cuts or scars.
What time is it? She almost asks one of the addicts that are now filling the alley. Dad's gonna flip his shit if I'm out past two. But she knows none of them have any kind of timepiece on them, and she can feel the drug starting to drag her back down, and her mouth doesn't really work anymore and her eyes are closing, and there's a little part of her that doesn't like this at all, not at all- even if the first hit was free, she is never doing this again- and that part is screaming its tinny little voice in the back of her brain: God help me… God help me…
And if I had a dollar for every time
I repented the sin and commit the same crime
I'd be sitting on top of the world today
-Emilie Autumn, "God Help Me"