Moondust
Saturday, February 9th, 2008In the back booth, I found her slumped over. The white foam around her soft, supple lips changed colors in the disco lights. Sally put everything up her nose. Back in the Eighties, she had started with cocaine and never stopped. I’ve arrested her for possess one too many times not to know that. If it hadn’t been for the rotating-boyfriend-funded genetic alterations, she would’ve looked well pas her one hundred and nineteen years.
Her tits didn’t look a day over twenty – and natural.
She didn’t reach for her bag. A few survived over-doses made the junkie wise. Sally carried an adrenaline kit. She never had time to reach it.
Moondust: the latest by-product of our space program. Small rocks ground into a fine powder, usually cut with something. Not tonight. Not for Sally. As the zipper closed on her body bag, I thanked God we had a limited supply. At the end of my shift, after signing out with the desk sergeant, I’d drown myself in a fifth to keep from thinking what will happen when it runs out.
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© Mary Lewys, 2008