Decline
Jan 2, 2011 15:06:06 GMT -5
Post by Amélie on Jan 2, 2011 15:06:06 GMT -5
It started out by accident. She'd happened to be hanging around a den for a few weeks, unaware of its existence until a repeat client--a somewhat portly middle-class man, who was generally harmless--took her inside afterward in lieu of payment. Others had warned her about the drug, but in the declining weather, the idea of a warm room was more intoxicating than the prospect of drug use. That was before she'd tried it, of course.
Over the preceding weeks she'd become less and less interested in her profession, less and less interested in eating. Some nights she didn't even go out. It was only a matter of time before she was killed or worse, subjected to another round of horrors by another madman. She didn't have any use in this world, and most of the time she thought it would be better if she just left it. She'd probably go to hell, but at least in hell she'd feel something.
The moment she put her lips to the pipe, it changed. Warmth and drowsiness settled on her like a blanket or a cloud. She didn't remember her client's name, but it didn't matter. Everything was rosy and she honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good.
She went slow, at first--only every so often would she visit that warm, dark, smoky room that smelled so sickly-sweet. Only the worst days, the days she thought it wouldn't matter if someone took her away. Then it became at least once a week.
Soon she knew the names of the attendants and owners, became accustomed to the sound of their twanging, musical language. Some nights she came in without partaking as the weather got colder and the prospect of an unheated apartment was an unpleasant one. They began to call her Aimi, which they told her meant love and bewitching.
After a while, though, there were no nights she came in without smoking. Most to all of her money went immediately towards the drug, and soon she had to promise she would pay them once she had the money. The vague sort of affection they held for her, though, only went so far. Soon she owed them, and was unable to pay her meager rent after she broke into her money box to repay them.
It stopped being about feeling good, and became about avoiding the horrible pains that came from not smoking. She was thrown out of her apartment, wearing only a ratty shawl and a patched dress. She could barely attract clients and often slept on park benches under newspapers. Any money she did make was immediately given to the proprietors of the den, but soon their musical, lilting language became harsh and sharp when turned to her. Those who spoke french as well hurried her out, though she fought them.
In a moment of compassion for a girl who had once resembled a friend, one of the attendants pressed an address into Amelie's hand. It turned out this was a den where Amelie owed no money and was unfamiliar to the people running it. There were no attendants, and the opium was of an inferior quality, but she was in no position to care. It was not uncommon for her to take clients to the washroom and for the owners to look the other way.
Even here, though, she soon outstayed her welcome. She was so high on the drug that she could barely rise from the smelly cushion. She didn't remember the last time she'd eaten or even left the den. They, too, forcibly removed her sometime in mid-february.
For a few hours, she was fine, but when she started to shake and ache, she tried to fight her way back in. When she was barred, she broke the window of a pharmacy and stole their stock of laudanum.
Curled up in an alley, she desperately poured the bitter liquid down her throat. Snow fell around her and she was almost sure she wouldn't survive the night. As long as she could sleep, though, it didn't matter. She'd just drift away.
Over the preceding weeks she'd become less and less interested in her profession, less and less interested in eating. Some nights she didn't even go out. It was only a matter of time before she was killed or worse, subjected to another round of horrors by another madman. She didn't have any use in this world, and most of the time she thought it would be better if she just left it. She'd probably go to hell, but at least in hell she'd feel something.
The moment she put her lips to the pipe, it changed. Warmth and drowsiness settled on her like a blanket or a cloud. She didn't remember her client's name, but it didn't matter. Everything was rosy and she honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good.
She went slow, at first--only every so often would she visit that warm, dark, smoky room that smelled so sickly-sweet. Only the worst days, the days she thought it wouldn't matter if someone took her away. Then it became at least once a week.
Soon she knew the names of the attendants and owners, became accustomed to the sound of their twanging, musical language. Some nights she came in without partaking as the weather got colder and the prospect of an unheated apartment was an unpleasant one. They began to call her Aimi, which they told her meant love and bewitching.
After a while, though, there were no nights she came in without smoking. Most to all of her money went immediately towards the drug, and soon she had to promise she would pay them once she had the money. The vague sort of affection they held for her, though, only went so far. Soon she owed them, and was unable to pay her meager rent after she broke into her money box to repay them.
It stopped being about feeling good, and became about avoiding the horrible pains that came from not smoking. She was thrown out of her apartment, wearing only a ratty shawl and a patched dress. She could barely attract clients and often slept on park benches under newspapers. Any money she did make was immediately given to the proprietors of the den, but soon their musical, lilting language became harsh and sharp when turned to her. Those who spoke french as well hurried her out, though she fought them.
In a moment of compassion for a girl who had once resembled a friend, one of the attendants pressed an address into Amelie's hand. It turned out this was a den where Amelie owed no money and was unfamiliar to the people running it. There were no attendants, and the opium was of an inferior quality, but she was in no position to care. It was not uncommon for her to take clients to the washroom and for the owners to look the other way.
Even here, though, she soon outstayed her welcome. She was so high on the drug that she could barely rise from the smelly cushion. She didn't remember the last time she'd eaten or even left the den. They, too, forcibly removed her sometime in mid-february.
For a few hours, she was fine, but when she started to shake and ache, she tried to fight her way back in. When she was barred, she broke the window of a pharmacy and stole their stock of laudanum.
Curled up in an alley, she desperately poured the bitter liquid down her throat. Snow fell around her and she was almost sure she wouldn't survive the night. As long as she could sleep, though, it didn't matter. She'd just drift away.