Chapter 2
"Fucking hell cinnamon face, could you jam this needle further in my nervous system?" I scream out.
"Common Carmilla, this isn't your first time." they laugh.
I roll my eyes. I wouldn't let anyone else do this. But LaFontaine is undeniably talented. I think they used to work in a tattoo shop before. One of the guys managed to "find" a pot of ink. So today most of them took a break from scavenging to freshen up their stick and poke tattoos. It's amazing what they can do with just a pencil, a needle, thread, and ink. I clench my teeth and let them finish the moth design behind my neck. They've been sketching this for weeks.
When it's done I turn my back against the big broken mirror we found and hold a shard of broken mirror so I can see the result. I would never admit it out loud, but they are the best I've seen at this. In times like these, I almost wish things had turned out differently for them. Oh well. That's life I guess. I put on my black sweater, hoping the cold weather will stay out of the holes. The cold winds getting restless, announcing the return of winter. It's worst of seasons when you're out on the streets. This run down building cannot keep out rain, let alone snow and cold.
I'm in charge of keeping the instruments as aseptic as possible. I rinse the instruments with alcohol and then pass them through a flame. Perry is sitting next to them, arranging the equipment for the 100th time. This girl has the undeniable talent to make anything look clean and orderly. Even a rundown abandoned house on the edges of the city. Not including me there are two girls in this group. Perry, although LaFontaine would never admit it, is their girl. They always share their findings of the day with her. More often than not they share their beat up mattress in the "living room". The other girl in the group is Bonnie. I guess she is attractive, with her pink hair and blue eyes. The only thing "wrong" with her is that she uses. Basically will take anything she gets her hands on. So, not an option for me when I want someone to warm my yoga mat.
The sun is setting and I grab my bag and leave, thanking LaFontaine on my way out. Often I can make a decent amount of change on Friday nights, with all those people coming and going from bars.
I'm finishing a cover, it's around 1 am, and that's when I see them. Two girls, leather jackets and pants, one of them wearing a blue Mohawk, looking high out of their minds. Their hands are all over each other as they laugh and move without balance. I've seen them around. It's hard not to notice a punk lesbian couple. One of them suddenly collapses. The other girl tries to get her to wake up, calling her name. She then realizes she's not waking up she screams for help. From where I'm sitting I can see the security guard trying hard to ignore them. 10/10 for effort. He probably thinks she's tripping or something.
I get up and run towards the couple.
"What happened?" I ask her.
"I don't know like we were walking and she just like ... fell." Her voice breaks and she starts crying. My chest tightens slightly, but I keep focus. I move the unconscious girl so she's lying on her side.
"What did she take?" I ask firmly.
"There was a bunch of pills. Maybe Oxy or I don't even know."
"What's her name?"
"Tam ... please help. I don't know what to do." Her voice is shaking, her eyes wild and lost. I need to give her something to do.
"Okay, I want you to see that security guard. Tell him he needs to call an ambulance. Stay with him until he does." I demand with a strong voice.
I check the girl's pupils. Pinpoints. She definitely used some sort of opioid. I rub my knuckles on the girl's sternum trying to get a reaction. The girl's hand twitches and she moans weakly. From afar I can see the security guard talking using his walkie-talkie. I hope he is making the right call. I continue trying to get the girl to respond for what seems like an eternity. Again, I wonder why this always happens while I'm around.
I feel someone kneel down beside me. She takes the girl's pulse.
"Gosh, what happened here?" She asks, not looking at me.
"Well, nothing extraordinary, buttercup. She collapsed while walking. Possible opioid overdose. Respiratory depression and a decreased level of consciousness that has persisted for that past five minutes." It comes out of me automatically, in a knee-jerk fashion.
It is at that moment she looks at me. I guess I hadn't looked at her either. Her eyes lock with mine, as if surprised we speak the same language. Although serious, she has a face that looks like it never learned how to frown or cry. Her light brown hair is in a messy bun and she is wearing plain clothes. There is a pack of cookies sticking out of her bag. She looks tired. She takes in my leather jacket, my messy curls, the dark makeup and the holes in my leather pants. I don't know if she is judging or just assessing the situation. My eyes are on her, unflinching. Well, until we hear the beautiful sound of a girl vomiting. Oh, modern romance.
"Well, it was definitely a good idea to put her on her side." She mumbled bitterly. "I don't understand why she keeps doing this to herself."
"You know her?"
"We'll I've gotten to know her. I'm a nurse at the General, sometimes I have to take shifts in the emergency unit. I'm in the oncology unit. But I guess you have an idea how it is, the hospital is like Swiss cheese because there are holes everywhere and so we all end up doing extra shifts in pretty much every unit. And, let me tell you – not always the nice units. But still I guess that's all right for me there's always action in my day and it pretty much cured my insomnia because the by the time I'm in bed I'm just too crapped out to do anything but sleep and..." She blushes once she realizes she has just given me her work schedule in less than 10 seconds.
"Sorry, I guess the rambling is a side-effect of the seven and a half cookies I ate in one bus ride." She adds.
I just look at her. Her natural cheerfulness feels like lemonade in summer. Refreshing, but somewhat awkward for this winter cold.
"You can go now, don't worry about her. I'll take care of her" she continues.
I shake my head, "I would rather wait until the EMT arrive."
She looks at me again, there is a clear softening in her features. "Are you – are you two a couple?"
I shake my head again.
"I told her girlfriend I would take care of her" I muttered.
Other than saying the unconscious girl's name a few times when her respiration seemed to decrease, we sit in silence. I can feel her eyes on me a few times. I guess I just don't know what to do about that, even though I'm used to it. The EMT arrives and the nurse gives them a report. When they leave the place is so quiet it is almost surreal.
She gets up and I realize how short she is.
She bites her lower lip slightly, "This is the worst part of town. You probably see things like that often."
I look at her with a blank face, "So this isn't Disney Land? I'm stunned."
She looks at her feet and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looks like she's debating something. Probably wants to ask me if I'm the one who sells her drugs.
I roll my eyes, "I'm not the one who sells her drugs." I turn to leave. For some unknown reason, I still feel the need to defend myself after all this time.
Her voice stops me, "No, well, actually I was wondering if I could buy you coffee or hot chocolate or something, for helping out that girl. I mean few people would take up their time like this for a stranger and I think it's quite -"
I'm shocked. Maybe you wouldn't be, but I really am. This differs from someone just throwing change your way. Coffee means contact. It means sitting down. It means talking. The girl is beautiful. This is a truth that cannot be denied. But street rats are in the streets for a reason. Besides, I need to get back to Silas before the crazy drunks get thrown out of the bars.
I cut her off. "Thanks, but no thanks cupcake. I need to get going."
She looks at me like she expected that answer. Her eyes on me again, I can feel her struggling to see what would be the best thing to say. Her hand searches for something in her purse. Here, it is – she will give me pity money. I rather have nothing than pity money. In my case, it's quite literal. That's why I play guitar instead of just holding a cup. It makes me feel like I'm somewhat working for the money I'm getting.
"All right, then take this -" I can't help but raise one eyebrow. She gives me a tube of cream. This better not be lube or some type of medication for vaginal infections. On the label, I can read it's an antimicrobial ointment. I am both relieved and surprised.
"For your tattoo." She adds and smiles. I don't know why this is worth so much more than a coffee or money.
I awkwardly take it from her hand. She grabs her bag and turns to leave. I do the same, walking in the opposite direction.
This need arises from my gut and I do not understand my need to look at her one last time. The moment I have my eyes on the back of her head she turns her head so that our eyes meet. It is only when I am facing forward again that the air momentarily trapped in my lungs is freed again.
