You Don't Come Close.

12

I keep on walking. Walking, boiling, not even trying to calm down, but bathing in my own rage. I'm spitting to the ground, murmuring, cursing to myself and never stopping to move. Cause' I don't want my thoughts to settle in, don't want to fully understand to what kind of level I've been forced into tonight.

Maybe I am exagerating, maybe I am just oversensitive, but I definitely lost my pride in Adrianas goddamn apartment today. It's one thing to be fucked. One thing to be touched by another man. But another to be seen, to be studied, observed, to be mocked.

'You're such a pretty little slut'.

No woman has and will ever call me a goddamn slut.

I head for the first liquor store I can find, walking in just as I am and throwing money on the counter, ordering two fuckin' bottles of bourbon. The guy in there gives me weird looks, but never says a word as he picks up the crumpled- up 100 $ bill I almost threw at him. I roughly grab for my change and the bottles, each in one hand, than walk along again, gulping down nearly half of one of them.

A few angry steps. A big gulp. A few steps. A big gulp- and the first one is finished in less than ten minutes. My stomach is rebellious and I'm gagging a little, preparing to throw up right there on the street, but I keep on drinking anyway, getting horribly drunk too fast and too heavily.

More. And more. Trying to choke all the embarrassment, all the anger and the omnipotent feeling of having been betrayed. I don't register the flashlights, I don't register the goddamn police car following me, until they are stopping right in front of me, two cops planting themselves in front of me. Normally I would try to run. But today I don't care.

I barely hear them telling me that I'm not allowed to drink alcohol openly on the streets, that I can't run around almost naked, but I look like a junkie and they'll treat me as one, independently from what I say or do, so I just spit into their faces. They are wasting no time, jumping forward to get me in a grip, but I'm pissed of and I'm Slash, so I don't take shit, but kick and wriggle and punch the bigger one right in his stupid shit-ass face.

His nose immediately explodes with blood and he's cursing and the next thing I feel is a shattering pain at the back of my head. Then I'm stumbling, almost falling to the ground with black dots in front of my eyes, as they are violently dragging me forward, pressing me face first to the front of their car.

My legs are spread with one of them kicking against my knees and as I dizzily try to punch him again, he fuckin' presses a goddamn gun to the side of my head, while pulling hard at my hair. His face is directly beside mine, blood still running down his face and into his mouth, spit flying everywhere as he starts snarling at me.

"Listen you worthless piece of shit. Try to fuck with us and I'll shoot your head off. And I ain't joking."

I spit into his face again and his fist hits my jaw with so much force, I am really blacking out for a second.

Stinging pain behind my eyes. A haze of dizziness.

They are searching through my clothes now, talking, breathing like old, stinky bulls and immediately pull out the bag of coke I bought yesterday.

"Uh oh, what have we got here? Goddamn useless junkie."

The gun is gone, so I start the wriggling again, cursing myself for running around with my damn junk in a plastic bag.

"Why so aggressive? Needing a fix, yes? I bet your on fuckin' heroin."

"Fuck off!", I spit out, but he gives me another hard spank to the back of my head with a nightstick, my face hitting the hard metal of the car as I fall forward. I'm rushed with nausea, my stomach pumping all the whiskey back up my throat, but I swallow it down, just coughing, growling, refusing to give in.