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And I lose. I lose every single time because it’s little young me against a set of rules and hierarchy I can’t stand.
Luxury comes with options—money, connections, power.Cunhas.
I can scream and make a scene, maybe even threaten neglect, but for what? To get myself banned from seeing Mama Rosa? To leave her alone to be just another old person in a system that forgets them. What if they leave her in corner to die or send her to another institute across the country, where I can’t visit?
I need them, they don’t need me. And that’s what makes them have all the leverage, so I grab my bag and walk away.
I have no money. No power. No say.
No options.
It’s time to make some options happen.
Morrocan Snow
STYX
Hurts. Like. Bitch.
Those three words hit my brain at full speed and loop around my skull. Without the energy to open my eyes, I rely on hearing, on assessing my body without moving a muscle. The muffled beeping, the slight hum of a machine, the hushed voices of women beside me.
I’m not alone.
The air flooding my nose is much too crisp and clean for Pink Street. My lips are drier than forgotten dirt, my throat rawer than a sub’s rear, and my abdomen feels like someone took a wooden spoon, dipped it inside, and stirred—vigorously.
The slightest of movements tear at my insides, an inhale rips through my lungs as it stretches my chest out and pushes against things I have never felt before. Not a good sign, knowing where my organs are.
What the hell happened?At the thought, I pry my eyelids up to see a bunch of nothing. Just blurriness and lots of light.
Above my right brow, a sharp pain catches the corner of my eye and travels toward the temple. The plastic tubes on my fingers make rubbing at the vein impossible. The closer my hand gets, the more visible things become.
A monitor is attached to my digit.
An IV drip protruding from a vein.
Oh no. No. No. No.
Despite the brick acting like my neck right now, I manage to angle my chin toward the plastic bag of liquid.
I’m in a hospital.
The packages are gone.
The realization strikes my heart, whipping it into full speed. The machine beside me goes berserk; hands are on me faster than I can move my lips, not that anything comes out of them but moans.
There’s a plastic mouth helmet on my face.
Take this off,my brain screams.
Take this fucking thing off!My hands fly up in the air in search of ways to free myself. They are knocked back down by someone. I kick and claw so I can yank this shit off of me.
Four people pin me down, mumbling in rushed, hushed tones.Portuguese. My mother knows better than to bring me here. What the hell happened? I must be dying.
Fingers rap around the cords as I yank them from my lips. Someone orders a tranquilizer.
Fuck no!I scream but a rush of heat skyrockets up my ass and explodes in my brain, trickling the flames between the crevices. The intensity spreads through my entire body. It burns to keep my eyes open, burns to breathe, to move, to exist. As it dissipates and cools, my muscles relax.
Not good.
