She sat alone in the 1980's BMW. She always did. No one would get near her since the HIV test had come back positive. Not MY fault! The voice screamed in her head.
The car's engine was warming-up, so the piston-slap was less pronounced. Why is this me? Why do I matter so little? These types of thoughts were never ceasing. The projects do that to people. Crush them. Make them bitter. Strip all that would make them...whole.
Auntie J. That was her. Before. Before it all happened. One night, one long stretching night that would never end. Until her end that is. Even then it would continue on, although it would cause laughter on the other end of the spectrum.
Knock knock knock--the engine sounded off. Memories. The memory that would never cease began to play before her mind's eye. The rhythmic pounding of bass shook the very ground, the walls, the glass in the derelict building they called "the palace". It's call was comforting to the masses who called the building home. It was never absent.
(To be continued.)
(I had to edit some content. I may have been mistaken about the young ladies name.)
(Fuck it. You know Auntie J.)
She crossed the walk; everyone male eyed the ass. All had had a taste, one time or another. Some even payed; albeit with regret. Auntie J heard the calls, yet she payed no mind. Her mind was on the rock. THE rock, the only rock that matters to ghetto trash.
(I'm tired. Maybe more tomorrow.)
