Her hair was soft and always smelled faintly of mango. My hair was short and smelled like bleach and Tres Flores. We lived in a small world and these things were important. Moreso than the jet black eyes. I swear she never blinked. More than the scar on my shoulder. I used to tell people it was a bullet wound. Truth was, most of my wounds were on the inside.
She was one big, fucking walking sore. Her pores screamed pain into the atmosphere. Her skin was slick and grey and terrifying. So, I often closed my eyes and wondered how Mangos grow.
I had more bad habits than money, and she gave me a run for mine. There was a Chevron station near my house that sold beer and she had her Dad's Chevron card. He looked the other way. But not when he met me. I've never met a man who wanted me to fuck his daughter less. I took pills and chased them with wine at the dinner table and when he asked me about it, I just laughed.
You look back into the prism and it all fucking makes sense. You have to understand. I lived in a room full of milk crates and empties. I looked out my window at the Mission Library. Homeless people shit on my steps and the dudes who sold weed there gave me a handful every time I came home. A mansion in Dallas was not my scene. Dallas is not my scene, mansion or not.
I don't know if I wanted them to like me or hate me or if I even cared. I don't remember. I remember bits. I remember trying to figure out how I was going to explain the empty case of beer in her brother's room when we'd already been drunk. Nice of the kid to let me stay in his room. Good place to drink apparently. Twelve beers chasing drunken dehydration.
It was the fucking Dexedrine more than anything else. Twenty of those fucking things and alcohol bounces off you. Forcefield shit.
The whole thing makes me sad. It's like one of those books that is so predictable that you can't stop reading it. You know your cues. You'll know when to laugh, cry, lament, and hate the bad guy. It will all be laid out for the taking.