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i. a remedy for self-performed lobotomies

Pleading, bargaining, and eventually blackmailing. She wasn't sure what part had finally convinced him—if it had been the dangling threat of dragging him in front of her mother (and subsequently his brother, hopelessly attached to her mother), or if he'd simply grown tired of her pestering him. But he'd caved.

She hadn't even cared to ask where they were going or what he was doing, and honestly she hadn't much cared. All she had been interested in had been to get out. Out of the house, out of the boredom, out of her head.

Following blindly, hoping he'd bring her somewhere that would make her deep itching want for a self-performed lobotomy go away.

Concrete walls, rusted steel, the air thick with smoke and heat, men with hollow faces and eyes bright with the kind of hunger no food could satiate. And at the corner of her eye a wad of money going from one hand to another. Subtle, whispering. She understood then why he'd been so reluctant to let her tag along. Her 'uncle' didn't just come here for pleasure. This was business.

Slipping off and disappearing in the crowd, she had enjoyed exploring on her own. The air growing lighter and the noise fading away as she walked further down the dark, dwindling hall, all alone except for the lonesome figure sitting hunched up against the wall.

"Wow, that looks bad." No sympathies, only cold observation. Eyes curiously following the soft trickle of blood coming from a crooked nose and a swollen and busted lip. Hues of deep purple and yellow already peeking behind the aggressive red splotches across his face. "Here, you might need this more than I do," she offered as she held out the hard-earned rum and coke she'd been slowly sipping away at.

Her mother's voice, always present, lecturing her on how concussions and alcohol shouldn't mix at the back of her head.