The Blood That Bonds (2 page)

Two looked up at him, sniffling. The slap
had brought fresh tears to her eyes, and she blinked them away.

“
Say you’re sorry, and mean
it.” Darren looked down at her like a dark king, and Two realized
that this had been just another in a long series of lessons. Darren
was in control. Darren was the boss. Darren was
God
, dispensing pleasure and pain at
his whim.

“
I’m sorry, Darren.” Two
meant it. No tears, now. No hysterics. Just rapid breathing,
clenched teeth. The need was a tight ball in her stomach. She tried
not to look at the heroin. She tried to look at the windows, the
clock on the desk, anything else. Again and again her eyes returned
to the bag.

“
Take it and get out.”
Darren tossed the bag into a corner, and turned to his ledgers. Two
scrambled after it on all fours, like the dog Darren had trained
her to be. By the time she was out the door, shouting some hurried,
half-meant words of appreciation after her, Darren had forgotten
entirely about her.

Her roommate’s name was Molly. The girl had
been in the business for fourteen months, a fact that repulsed Two
whenever she gave it even a moment’s thought. Molly was a sweet,
honest, quiet girl. She had become wrapped up with the wrong
people. These people had led her to heroin, and heroin had led her
to Darren. Darren had led her to the clients, of which there were
many. Molly was an absolute premium, the Rolls Royce of Darren’s
line of whores. Even after fourteen months, she was still the
youngest girl in his service; only twelve. Her work earned more in
a weekend than most earned in a month.

Two believed she didn’t think about this,
but looking at the bags under Molly’s eyes on a Sunday morning when
the little girl returned, tired and often bruised, to shoot up and
go to sleep, was like a physical force hammering on her. They’d
shared a sister-like relationship at first, but Two had been forced
to establish some distance after a nightmarish group-job they’d
been ordered to perform. This had happened occasionally since, and
perhaps the most horrifying thing about the events was the way in
which Two had become inured to them.

She and Molly were popular,
as individuals and as a group. Two, with her large eyes, upturned
nose, and small breasts, could pass for much younger than she
really was. She received the clients who
wanted
to fuck a twelve-year-old, but
who still retained some sort of conscience, some semblance of a
soul. Molly’s clients, as far as Two could gather, had no soul at
all.

Sweet lips, big blue eyes, long brown hair
tucked back in a ponytail, Molly was swinging her legs over the
edge of her bed, watching Two. Her client had backed out tonight,
but as he’d pre-paid, Darren had treated Molly to a night off. She
had absolutely nothing to do and this, compared to her normal
nights, was bliss.

Two cooked the heroin, pulled down her
pants, and pushed away her underwear, exposing the joint between
thigh and pelvis. She still shot up here, a remnant of the days
when she’d hoped to escape, the days when she was still concerned
about needle tracks. She had no qualms about exposing herself in
front of Molly. How could she? Molly, in turn, registered no
expression of disturbance or concern as Two slid the needle into
her skin, pressed the plunger, set the syringe on the dresser.

The effect of the fix was
near-instantaneous, as always. First the burst of pleasure, warm
and pulsing like an orgasm. Vision blurred, muscles relaxing, Two
seemed to float off into a cloud of euphoria. She lay back on the
bed, hands crossed behind her head, and heard Molly speak as if
from the end of a long tunnel.

“
I saw the baggie in the
trash. Did you steal Cindy’s shit again?”

Stupid bitch leaves it
out, what does she expect?
Two thought. She
didn’t need to answer Molly. The question was
rhetorical.

“
You’re going to hurt
yourself.” The concern in Molly’s voice was lovely in its
innocence. Two drew in a shuddery breath, happy to let the drugs do
their work. Caring was pain. Apathy was bliss.

“
No one gonna miss me when
I’m gone,” she told Molly, still looking up at the
ceiling.

“
I’ll miss you.”

Two smiled. Of course Molly would miss her …
until the drugs and the pain and the sheer horror of their life
took her, too. Assuming Molly outlived her in the first place.

Two dozed.

* * *

Descent and rebirth. In April of the
previous year, Two had decided to take a walk, an innocent enough
beginning to this disgusting end. She was not a foolish girl. She
knew better than to wander down the wrong streets at the wrong
hour. Broad daylight and known streets seemed safe enough.

She had spent the last few months in a
homeless shelter, unsure of what to do next. Slowly, though, she
was learning new ways of making a living. She was not always proud
of herself; there was no glory in shoplifting, no beauty in fishing
wallets from people’s pockets, no redemption in breaking into
apartments. But she survived, and as her skills in these areas
grew, so did the sum of money Rhes held for her; deposit for a new
apartment. He didn’t know where she obtained it, never asked,
probably tried not to think about it. Two never volunteered the
information. She was ashamed, though she had no real idea what
shame was at the time. Real shame would come later.

Walking in the city, watching the men in the
ethnic groceries unload their trucks, the women chattering in their
exotic languages, children playing hopscotch in the street. The
sights, smells and sounds of New York were all about her, and Two
enjoyed them as she always had. She felt no fear of the city, nor
any of the constricting claustrophobia it inspired in so many
others. Two loved New York, because it was like her. It made no
excuses for itself, hid nothing of its nature. New York was the sum
of its many, many components, and yet so much more.

A common, garden-variety mugging was all it
had taken to send her spiraling down into a life of alternating
horror and numbness. A grab from an alleyway, the click of a gun, a
grunted threat. Two would have given them money, if she had money
to give. Would have given it happily. She knew now she could live
without it. She had no illusions of bravery. When someone pointed a
gun at your head and demanded your money, you gave it to him.

She had nothing, not even pocket change. A
pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a wallet with a wide selection of
fake IDs … these were her possessions. Her attackers were
unenthusiastic. They decided that her body would serve as an
acceptable form of currency.

If Two had known the eventual outcome, she
would’ve let them ravage her. Would’ve simply lay back and let it
happen. If she’d known where her cries for help would land her, she
would’ve suffered this singular violation in silence. One night to
salvage the rest of her life. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, and
her cries brought her saviors, and her saviors brought
damnation.

Two young girls, brandishing a gun they
didn’t even know how to use, successfully chased the two men away.
Two lay in the alley, battered, bleeding, clothes torn from her
body. She was slipping rapidly into unconsciousness, but she tried
to tell them to take her to Sid’s. Tried to tell them about Rhes
and Sarah, her friends. They would help her.

Two couldn’t make any sounds. She’d used up
her voice calling for help. She heard a name: “Darren.” Then,
darkness.

Memories like crumpled Polaroids, floating
in a muddy pool. Blackness, floating, a flash of light, a voice
asking her name, asking about her parents. So gentle, this voice.
She told the truth. Why shouldn’t she? Her mother dead, her father
gone. No parents for Two, only the street.

Sharp sting of a needle, and then gentle
bliss, descending down, back into warm darkness.

By the time her wounds had healed, and she
was capable of getting out of bed, Two was fully addicted to the
heroin Darren brought her once a day.

Days passed. Escape. Why not? The heroin
already held her in an iron grip, but heroin was in ready supply.
She would not submit to Darren’s ownership, would not accept him as
her source of the drug. She would not let him own her as he owned
those other girls.

She left him in the subway. Sliding onto the
train, darting out from between the doors just as they closed,
laughing and cursing as his angry face slid away. People all around
her not-looking, a New York practice perfected to an art form. Two
stole food and drink from a news-stand, ran from subway cops, still
laughing.

Withdrawal came, and Two was horrified by
how quickly her willpower dissolved under that onslaught of pain
and need. Unable to steal enough to get what she needed, she had
found a dealer and paid for the heroin with the same currency
Darren had initially proposed. The irony of this was not lost on
her as she lay there, burning from fever, the pain of withdrawal
lancing through her, and let this strange man thrust into her again
and again.

When it was done, she felt sick and defiled,
but could not stop herself from asking for a fix. The dealer gave
her a needle, and disappeared to obtain the rest of what she had
paid for. Two shot up, nodded, dozed, unaware that she was doing
so.

Thumps on the stairs, the door kicked in,
Darren’s face, raging, screaming, dragging her by the hair down the
stairs, naked, jagged splinters embedding themselves deep within
her thighs. Wailing as the car sped back to the apartments,
shrieking as she was dragged into them and thrown into Darren’s
office. There, Darren had beat her in a manner both savage and
methodical, using a leather belt wrapped around his fist, beginning
with her legs and moving up her naked body. Twice had Two managed
to get to her feet and run for the door. Both times Darren had
caught her, stronger and faster than this weak and strung-out girl.
He had punched her in the stomach, threw her back into the corner,
continued to hit her with the belt.

Finally, lying on the floor, naked and
sobbing, unable to move, she’d learned what the small scar he’d
burned into the webbing between her left thumb and forefinger
meant. It was Darren’s mark, known to the other pimps and dealers,
and they understood that returning one of his girls would be worth
more to them than keeping her for themselves.

Two was trapped, branded like cattle, and
there was not a dealer in the world (or at least, the scope of that
which made up her world) who would sell to her. If Two wanted the
heroin – and within hours, she knew, the need inside of her would
be a ball of fire racing through her veins – she would have to earn
it.

She went out on the corner that very night,
still bruised and aching, and stood on the corner with the other
girls until one of the strange men in their dark cars finally
pointed at her, and she went with him to a nearby motel. Later, in
the early hours of the morning, she lay on the floor of the shower,
knees pulled nearly too her chin, arms wrapped around her calves,
and let the hot water wash away salty, bitter tears.

* * *

“
Get your ass up and get
ready, Two!” Darren shouted from down the hall. He kept his office
near his best earners, the dubious honor of which often went to Two
or her roommate.

“
Get ready for … what?” Two
questioned, yawning and trying to clear her head. The heroin had
made her drowsy, and she had slept through the strongest part of
the high. Now there was only the afterglow, and that was rapidly
fading.

Molly was in the bathroom, probably getting
high. She liked to use frequently but in small amounts,
skin-popping or mixing the heroin with crack cocaine and smoking
it. Two preferred larger doses injected directly into a vein.

“
Didn’t I tell you?
Must’ve. Your stupid ass just forgot.” Darren’s voice held a rare
tone of uncertainty.

“
Why is it, Darren, that
every time you fuck up, it’s my stupid ass that just forgot?” Two
muttered under her breath.

“
Somethin’ to say, bitch?”
The words startled Two. Darren had come down the hall as she’d been
muttering to herself, and now stood in the door.

Two looked up at him, the fear passing. The
high was already fading, but the drug was still calming her,
keeping her from sustaining any strong emotions.

“
No,” she told him.
“Nothing.”

“
Fuckin’ right. Listen, you
got a client tonight. Weird motherfucker. I told him and told him,
‘Look, we got girls fuck you twice as good, and look better doin’
it too.’”

Two rolled her eyes. Despite her worth to
him, Darren never let a chance go by to put her down.

“
He was real particular
though. Said he wanted you, and motherfucker gave me a whole list
of shit you supposed to wear. Listening?”

“
Sure.”

“
Black panties, black
socks, black pants, black shirt. Tie your hair back in a ponytail.
Wear a gold chain. Make your pale-ass little white-girl face even
paler. Black lipstick, dark eye-shadow, lots of liner. Shower
first, and clean yourself well. One gold chain, no other jewelry.
No deodorant, no perfume. He says it ‘disagrees with him.’ Don’t
look at me like that, I’m just quoting him.”

“
What … the
fuck?”

“
Look, if he wants you to
look like some strung-out addict–”

“
I
am
an addict.” Two grumbled, her
voice more insolent than was prudent. Darren looked at her for a
moment.