Thread: Unholy Conspiracy (Quix and Xana)

Aisha swallowed hard as the baggie fall on the ground with the softest of thuds. It was hard to resist the urge to dive for it, to open the baggie and get that whiff of fine powder inside. Her hands trembled as she bent over with a show of dignity, as if she possessed a modicum of dignity anymore. She was already salivating as she took it in her hand, already imagining how it would feel as it flooded her veins. That quick hit of numbness to forget what Father Donahue had done to her, to forget all the men who had used her over the years, or all the men who would. She would save this. If she would have to meet with Bishop Manley, and his volunteers to get herself a new coat tomorrow, she might need it then. Or the next time she met with Father Thorne, and he inflicted his cruelty upon her. Besides, she still had half a bottle of vodka to help her sleep tonight. So she went to the bathrooms to shower, searing water turning her skin nearly red, and yet not nearly hot enough to wash the violation away. Never hot enough to wash the violation away. It was imprinted upon her skin, like an ill-considered tattoo. She went back to her room, sinking down onto the bed. She might have missed the warmth of sleeping indoors, but she could have gone a lifetime without sleeping in this bedroom again. But if it wasnt here, it would have just been somewhere else. So she chugged the rest of the vodka, before the memories could catch up to her. Jana sat on the bed, sighing softly, and trying not to cry again. She had left everything behind, not that everything was all that much for her. But now everything she possessed could fit in a backpack. Breathing deep hurt. Her stepfather had kicked her in the ribs, and bruised them. Maybe even cracked one. The last time it happened, Father O Brien said she would be safe, if she came to a safe house. He had given her the address, and told her to keep it close. She had hidden it, hoping not to need it. Knowing if she left, he would kill her. But now she was afraid he might kill her if she stayed. She could only hope this pace was as secret as Father OBrien assured her it was. Laying back onto the bed, she looked up at the crucifix on the wall, and remembered the sacrifice the lord made for his children. Jesus was here now, protecting her. No one would hurt here, here. Aisha left the next morning, taking only a cup of coffee with her. The morning air was brisk, especially without her coat, but as long as she kept moving it wasnt so bad. Except that she had to panhandle to get enough money to buy a coffee at the restaurant, and nobody wanted to spare change to a junkie whore. But a kind older woman gave her a five, and it was just enough to get herself a coffee and a bagel. We dont want any trouble, man behind the counter said, as she gave her order. Just trying to eat, man, She pleaded handing over the wrinkled bill. This aint a place to meet your john, or your dealer, he accused, taking her money. You eat, and you leave. She settled into a booth in the corner, stirring in a couple packets of sugar and cream. Her hands shivered from the cold and the desire for the drugs in her pocket, but she just gripped her drink, fighting the cravings. She pulled out her articles, rereading them for the thousandth time. The ink had faded in places, but she knew what all the words were. Sitting there, alone, in her dirty, old clothes, she wondered if Jeffrey would give her the time of day. At least she was clean, her thick braids tied neatly behind her head. She had been pretty, once, not that was any comfort to her. They had done what they wanted to her, because she had been pretty. Now the years on the street had taken their toll on her, and she looked like someone who had lived too long in her 26 years.