Story from the Radio 1:

She sat in the decrepit room, furniture caked with grime and smoke, ashtrays overflowing on every surface. He wasn’t quite unconscious next to her, but close. The smell of cheap whiskey flowed from his beautiful body. Hair dreaded and matted belied the clean lines of his face. In the orange light his pale skin screamed. She wanted to be home, to be done with this place, this man, these smells. It was too far, too late. The last bus had left hours ago, before they had torn clothes from their flesh, before the first time they came together, and now she needed to wait until morning, there was no way he could drive her, too far to walk, too late to walk anyway.

The stale mattress under her felt wet with grime, made her heavily tattooed flesh crawl. She was better than this, maybe not much, maybe not better than anything else, but still better than this. Fuck it, who was she kidding… this was exactly who she was, just another piece of gutter trash, a junkie slut in waiting. The track marks might not be on her arms yet, but it was probably just a matter of time, she was just like everyone always told her she was.

The hands on the clock ticked, another beat each second. Who the fuck still had a clock with hands?  Well, Johnny, Jimmy? What was his name again? The booze was starting to wear off, leaving her faced with the reality of this wreck of a home. Was that a rat? God, how did she keep getting herself into these situations? No question, he was beautiful, roped muscles and no fat, that junkie intensity  that always drew her in. His cheekbones were cut from diamond, his lashes thick, long, like he was wearing mascara. Lips that were wide and sensuous but cruel, they had explored every inch of her before, when they were both flying above this world.

Would the damned sun never come up?

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