Words to be used:
- music
- blue
- salty
- hallucinating the Stigmata
- Saskatchewan
- paraplegic
- prostitute
- Alcoholic
Her hand held the glass, shaking gently, tapping against the arm of her wheelchair. Music, the Blues, drifted up from the street below. The salty taste was still on her tongue, left there from the John now sprawled on the dirty bed behind her. She needed to wash it away-wash away more than the cum in her mouth, but her entire being. Drift away into the alcohol haze that was her saviour and her tormentor. Drink away the broken body and the memory of every bastard who ever paid to touch it, to "fuck the chick in the wheelchair". Fetishists, perverts, control freaks. She tipped the amber liquid down her throat and poured another from the bottle nestled in her useless lap. The burning Saskatchewan sun was setting, it's light streamed through her window. A shaft of light warming her face, orange and red. She watched the sun move across the wall, across her arms and dead legs, glinting off the steel frame of the chair. She downed another glass, refilled and held it up to the sun, admiring the play of light and booze. But for a brief moment - a trick of the light?- red spreading across the back of her hand. Panic. The tumbler fell from her grip. The cheap whiskey splashed against her legs and dripped onto her feet, stinging as it filled the open wound on the top of her foot, diluting the blood that flowed onto the floor. "What the fuck!!" she yelled, but the John kept snoring.
Yep, it's not Shakespeare, but it sure was fun!!
J.
