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It’s happened again. Stalemate. She’s gone. Disappeared. Running amok again tonight, God knows where.
It’s been truly horrible the last few days. Horrible in direct proportion to how great it’s gotten finally, how close we’ve really become…
And now it’s as if the demon curse is seeing her really letting somebody in, another human being getting closer and closer to her soul. It feels that threat to its malevolent soul-cancer that only wants to isolate her from all love and human contact, to better just kill her off. And seeing that threat, it’s suddenly struck her hard again with a new round of lightning bolts right to the brain, unleashing all of Hell’s fury. And she’s insane again, beyond insane.
South of insane. Digging her own hole to Hell again.
Violent, irrational, unreasonable… and out for blood.
My blood now.
After busting up my place, knocking over lamps and furniture, throwing all my books in the bathtub and turning on the water… Bitch… threatening me with death and worse, I finally managed to get her out
onto the street without too much violence. Her little bag was already packed and ready for a one way trip to Hell after her day-long tantrum, another attempt at emotional blackmail, her favorite trick and last resort, since I’d done everything in my power to just ignore her and all the insane outbursts and threats…
So I had no problem luring her out into the street on the pretext of giving her money, my other smart chess move which left her even more pissed and vengeful once I had her out..
Of course. Cause once maneuvered into that more vulnerable position, standing out in the street again like a vampire cat in the middle of a vast open desert, she still pitched another fit, right out in the open
for all gawking pedestrians to watch, threatening me with further vengence and dire retribution if I didn’t give her the “fuck off” money she wanted for more crack.
Scandalous tricks from her worn out whore Gucci bag.
Extortion.
“You got it two choice now, Cigano. You gonna help me to die… Or I gonna kill YOU, got it now?”
I believed her. You would too, believe me. I gave her a quick 20, happy to just be rid of her, and she was gone with the ill wind that brought her, off into the night like the wicked witch of Hell.
An hour later, she was on the phone.
“Wanna see me?” Of course.
I left my post by the waves at the end of Copacabana, flying down the fluorescent beach on the bike. On my unholy mission for Narcisa.
Again.
Ten minutes later I rolled up to the usual corner. There she was, sitting in the shadows, the eternal, dirty-faced homeless waif, sitting there with the little bag of clothes she’d taken with her to let me know she “never wanted to see me again” for the thousandth time. Sitting on her lap was the whole pile of the notebooks I’d given her to inspire her to write, filled now with her illegible scrawled crackhouse
epiphanies, genius transcendent poetry and rants.
She was sitting in an empty doorway of one of those crumbling old colonial buildings at the corner of Rua Santa Cristina in the shade of a big Mangueira, writing in one of her poetry
journals. She might have even been mistaken by some poor unsuspecting fool for an innocent little schoolgirl waiting for her daddy.
More like Lolita on crack waiting for Charlie Manson .
She was visibly shaken up after only an hour back on the streets that
used to be her home sweet home before I took her in off the dirty old ho-stroll and got her as strung out on me as she was on the crack.
As strung out as I am on her.
Sex, money, drugs, love, sex, money drugs, love. Drama. Passion.
Adventure. Danger. The endless roller coaster cycle of mutual addiction and Need…

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.