Brain on Cocaine

Prada red shoes

( I hesitated to post this…but what the heck… the prompt led me to write these words)

Written for:  Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, First Line Fridays, and short fiction

Prompt: First Line Friday: July 6th, 2018 – Bobbie Jo wouldn’t know class if it crawled into her knockoff Prada and went home with her.

Brain on Cocaine

Bobbie Jo wouldn’t know class if it crawled into her knockoff Prada and went home with her. She had been on the street all night selling her body so she could afford her next line of cocaine. These days it was getting difficult to attract the Johns. Undercover cops patrolled the sidewalks and she could smell them a mile off those bastards.

Her pimp changed her usual corner giving it to a younger girl. Bobbie Jo had regular Johns at that spot. She fought with her pimp, scratched his face and ended up with a fist in her belly. Her nose started bleeding running down her dirty halter top.

The pimp shoved Bobbie Jo to the new corner while he settled himself under the lamppost watching her.

The next John was quiet and dirty. They stayed in the car behind the garbage dumpster. A messy blow job. Back at the corner, the pimp took her money in exchange for one line of cocaine.

Around the age of 10, Bobbie Jo’s three brothers had abused her one after the other.  They initiated her to drugs and cocaine by the time she was 13. At the age of 15, she got on the street, living between two buildings in the downtown core.  She lived from John to John, cocaine line to cocaine line.

She was now 36, her brains fried for the past decade, passed the age that Johns cared to look at twice.

Bobbie Jo lived for cocaine. She knew that Johns and her pimp took care of that. In essence, Bobbie Jo wasn’t fit to know any better.

She wore fake Prada shoes; they were red, the right shoe had a hole in the sole.  Bobbie Jo wasn’t fit to know any better.

Hélène Vaillant©willowpoetry

 

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