Brigit's Flame Entry- Week 2 December
Chasing the Dragon
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, depiction of drug use, prostitution, eating disorder and a reference to a sexual situation
Word Count: 2050
A/N:This did not hit my muse this week. Ugh. I am so glad that this is done, it was typed out word by painful word. Many thanks to obleighvious for help with “street” facts. LOL
Definition: Hustler : Someone who acts aggressively, especially in business dealings.
“I'm sorry. What do you want me to say? You know I can't use her like this.” Taggart gestured at her, his eyes rolling. “Maybe I can make some calls, see if there's room. We can do the Penney's catalog. It's the fall edition. They could cover her up, for Chrissakes.” Taggart squeezed the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to stave off a headache.
“Please, Mr. Taggart. Carise is beautiful, you said so yourself. We've worked so hard! What can we do? What do you want?”
Carise sat in the cheap molded plastic chair, her ankles crossed neatly, no sign of the inner turmoil marring her features. Frowns caused wrinkles. Carise kept her brow smooth as she listened to the whine of her mother's voice in the small office, begging and pleading. She let her eyes flicker upward and let the humiliation wash over her as she began to count the minute holes in the tile ceiling. There were millions. It might take her forever.
“Listen, it's no use, dammit!” Taggart had had enough. There was an edge to his voice now. Carise kept counting as he continued, “Look at her. What is she, 5'11? It's turning my stomach, Delores, it really is. You are this close-“ Taggart held out his index finger and thumb the tiniest bit apart, “ -and you are going to lose it over, what? Five pounds? The Russians are here now. It's not like it used to be. They are getting all the jobs, and there's nothing I can do about it. Employers want to see cheekbones, not baby fat. That's the bottom line, sugar. So, lose the weight or lose the job. I'm done with this bullshit. She's a model for pity's sake. Not some Goddamned Hostess Twinkie girl.”
Carise blinked and spoke for what had to be the first time in months. “What does that even mean?”
Taggart spun around and leveled a glare at her. “What?”
Carise kept her face blank, her voice totally devoid of emotion. “I said, what does that even mean? A Hostess Twinkie girl? Like, are you saying there's a girl who walks around looking like a Twinkie, and I look like that? If that's a job, maybe I could get it.”
Taggart sneered. “You think you're so clever, huh? Well, why don't you think yourself into a thinner body, stupid? You aren't paid to think. Or talk. Or be a smartass. In fact, you aren't paid to do much of anything these days since you can't seem to lay off a freaking doughnut!”
Carise's mother finally spoke up. “Mr. Taggart. Carise has already lost ten pounds, and then another five, and then another ten even after that. She's looking much thinner, I have to say. I see cheekbones. Can we try for something better than the catalog?”
Taggart leaned over and seized Carise's chin. He tilted her face around, yanking it until he found what he wanted. Carise just passively allowed the manhandling, her eyes downcast.
“You see that? You see? Right there?” Taggart still had Carise's chin in a death grip.
Delores nodded.
Taggart threw her face down disgustedly. “No you don't! You don't see anything! I want cheekbones that will cut glass. I want them so edgy that they make Angelina Jolie's look like the fucking Pillsbury Doughboy. Until I see that, you are not going to be doing lingerie. Dream on. They would laugh me out of the business if I took you there. What do you weigh now? 125? 130?”
“She's 118! I weigh her every morning!” Delores jumped in frantically.
Taggart looked at her thoughtfully. “Good. Five more. Just five. If you can get down to 113, I'll see what I can do, okay?”
Carise nodded dully. Five pounds, ten. They were just numbers to her. She didn't even feel it anymore.
“Did you hear that, honey? The runway! Just imagine! Then you'll really be on your way...”
Carise plodded alongside her mother. She realized that she didn't have to talk anymore, only nod once in awhile. No one wanted to hear what she thought. They only wanted a body, a clothes hanger. Her mother was prattling on, oblivious to the silence next to her. Carise thought that she could turn into a black hole of unspoken of want and need, that she was already nearly a supernova of buried desires, and no one would ever be the wiser. It was amazing how this shell of a body was such a deception for people who didn't, couldn't want to look any deeper.
Carise could feel herself melting away with each pound. At first it had been hard to diet; she had always been naturally thin and had never needed to watch what she ate. The scorch of real hunger had taken her by surprise. Only her own iron will and her mother's dreams kept her unswerving from her task. Under the stab of hunger came weakness, and after that, numbness. It was here that Carise dwelled. In the land of the unfeeling. She could float above the world, walk behind herself.
With each bite left uneaten, she pared away another ounce of herself. It was satisfying, somehow, to concentrate on the basic elements, to peel things away to what was left behind. It was a distillation process, she liked to think. Only what was left when you distilled something was never the purity. It was the refuse. When Carise wanted to scream, she sighed. When she wanted to clench her fists, she relaxed them. You had to be perfect. Smile, but not too wide. No one seemed to want to see the real her. What was left behind.
“Ready? I want girls with boyshorts to be in front! Like the runthough, people!” The woman who seemed to be in charge was running around backstage, zipping in and around scantily clad models.
It was a frantic scene, but Carise was not as nervous as she supposed she would be. This was her tenth show, after all. She was in a position of honor, opening the show, and she had the most costume changes. It was enough to make a seasoned model nervous, but Carise couldn't muster enough feeling to care. She stood still while the hairdresser pinned a fall of hair to the crown of her head. Everything was in place. Her makeup was flawless, her high-heels strapped on and ready to go.
She took her place at the front of the line of girls and waited for the curtains to open.
When she stepped out, the spotlight hit her and she knew she glowed. She felt time slow down, the click of her heels on the glossy runway ringing unnaturally loud in her ears. Every face in the crowd turned her way, the flashbulbs going off like confetti. This was the pinnacle of her career so far, her most shining moment, but she felt nothing. Everything was static. Carise tilted her head and swiveled her hips, a doll on display. The bright stage light blinded her for a moment, but she knew to just turn and keep walking down the aisle. It didn't matter where she went, as long as she looked good doing it.
The knock startled her awake. Carise rubbed at her bleary eyes. What time was it? It was hard to tell in the semi-darkness that always permeated the apartment.
“Yo. You there? Chain's on. Lemme in.”
Carise stumbled to her feet. She vaguely realized that her tee-shirt was at least two days old and her nipples clearly showed through-when had she stopped wearing a bra?-but that was the least of her concerns right now. At the moment all she could think of was the hunger. Her hands shook with it. She made her way on unsteady legs to the door and fumbled with the chain for a moment before it finally, blessedly, gave way.
Pete knocked past her. “You look like shit,” he remarked indifferently. “Smell like it, too. I wish you'd get your act together. It's not cool. Can't you get a shower once a week, at least?”
Carise tried to focus on him. “What do you care?” she mumbled. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. That desperate, needy feeling was starting to prickle her and run in her veins. She jiggled her leg, trying to distract herself. She could feel the cold sweat breaking out right now. She'd better hurry or it would be unbearable soon. “You got the stuff?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but the whine was clear even to her own ears.
Pete shrugged. “You got the money? You owe me from last time, too.”
Carise felt her nose run. Her temper wanted to flare, but she kept it in check with the last reserves of her energy. “Dave said I'm paid up. I talked to him... uhn... last night. He said I'm good to go.”
“Listen, Car, I don't know anything about that. You're not getting any tar until I see some dough. That's it,” Pete was unimpressed.
“Don't be a jackass! Dave said! Just call him!” Carise tried not to clench her teeth. She had to be sweet.
“Dave's not my problem. This is your deal. Call me when you can pay up. Jesus, some of you girls get really fucked up. Can't you just get your high and keep your shit together?” Pete looked regretful for a minute, then he shook his head, the look wiped clean. “Whatever. See ya, Car.”
“Wait!” Carise grabbed his arm. She was starting to shake all over, the need was so strong. “Maybe we can work out our own deal. We don't have to involve Dave in this. Come on, Pete. Please.”
Pete looked her over, assessing her. “It's all the same, isn't it?” he said, almost to himself. “Fine. You want it like this, that's your thing. You aren't worth a full score. A blowjob will get you some some T's and blues, that's all I got.”
Carise grimaced. “Fine. Can I have it first? It'll be better for both of us that way.”
Pete slung his pack to the floor and unzipped it. He threw a balloon at her. “To be honest, I don't really care anymore, Car.”
“To be honest, I don't either, Pete.” Carise caught the drug and grabbed for the needle that was still sitting on the edge of the coffee table from last night. It only took her a minute to get everything ready.
Pete looked on dispassionately as she tried to find a vein. In the beginning she had injected between her toes to avoid the telltale track marks, but as her habit spiraled out of control she quickly lost interest in appearances. The veins in her feet hardened and collapsed, and she moved on to her arms quickly enough. She was still thin now, but it didn't matter to anyone anymore, least of all her.
Carise couldn't find a vein in her arm or behind her knee. Her hands were shaking so badly that she went to the tried and true one in her neck. The only one left was her groin, and she was saving that for the really tough times. Pete looked away in disgust.
The euphoria didn't flood through her, as the drugs were only a cheap knock-off, not the real thing, but they dulled the withdrawal and fuzzed her mind. Carise let the syringe fall from her hand and tried to forget herself and what she had become for so many people. She didn't want to see what she was now, on her knees in squalor.
“Let's get this over with,” she slurred, looking up at Pete.
“Yeah,” he said, unbuckling his belt.
“You know, I used to be a model,” Carise said. “I was special. I was really pretty.”
“Sure you were. You all were, once.” Pete sounded tired.
Carise wanted to close her eyes, but she didn't. She kept them open the whole time, down on the floor on her knees.