oxycodone

Monday

A.M.

Trixx steps out of the beaten-down caravan, grunting when a few droplets land on her recently-done cornrows. The 609 Trailer Park  on 8 Mile, Detroit, would intimidate most people. But for Trixx, this is what she calls home. There are at least a hundred trailers, all of them parked within 30 feet away from each other, covered in graffiti scrawls. The metallic shells of the trailers are amber from the many years of leaving them under the heavy Detroit rain, and stenching litter lies in their proximity. 

Trixx heads towards the main road where she catches the bus to work, her hands hurting from the below-freezing temperatures. She should be used to it by now, but her knuckles still peel and bleed every winter. 

She cuts across the road, shoving her hands in the pockets of her thin coat. The greyness of the sky is a reflection of her mood, dark clouds hovering over her head as the drizzle begins to pick up its pace. 

Detroit is not what it once was, especially on this side of the tracks. In the past fifteen years, the once-beloved industrial area succumbed into derelict land, poverty and ruthless crime.

A series of wrecked and obsolete cars drive past her as she waits at her bus stop, a few of them honking at her. She gives one of them the middle finger for catcalling her. She can't stand when people do that, but sexual assault in this neighbourhood is beyond the norm. Her eyes set on the sign above her head, reading 'Westbound Eastland Mall 10' '.

Ten minutes. She ducks under the roof of the bus stop to escape the icy rain.

I need to get out of this shithole, she thinks to herself. Sighing, her defeatist thoughts are interrupted when she hears a familiar, high-pitched whistle. Her dark eyes light up when she sees Hazard, her closest friend.

"Hey girl, wassup?" Hazard greets her with their usual handshake. But it's not a standard handshake, it's a gang sign that their people use. 

"Back at work today," she clicks her tongue in annoyance. If there is something Trixx hates more than being broke, it's working at the dead-end car factory.

"Hope this week flies by," Hazard hums, rubbing his hands together as steam comes out of his mouth from the cold. 

"Yeah, same." Trixx's bus finally pulls up, its brakes screeching as it comes to a halt. "I'll see you 'round, then," she mumbles, saying goodbye to her friend with their usual handshake. 

"I'll let you know what we do tonight," Hazard says before the bus doors close behind her. 

Trixx sits at the back of the bus to avoid attention, but it's almost impossible since she is the only female on the bus. A few old men stare at her from their seats, but she returns them a cold glare. 

Never show weakness, even when you feel uncomfortable, Trixx always says to herself. 

Taking out her Mp3 player, she shoves the ear-pods into her ears, hitting shuffle. Her mind begins to wander as she listens to an underground 90s Hip Hop playlist she made last week. 

Trixx has known Hazard since she moved into a shitty shared trailer at The Park. Trixx ran away from home at the age of 16 to escape her abusive father, and if it weren't for Hazard, she would be dead right now.  

The day they met, Hazard offered her a job, which he described as 'local and good for Detroit'. At first, she wasn't intrigued. Trixx thought it was probably charity work at some crummy church, but she couldn't have been farther away from the truth. 

Her job? Becoming a part of the biggest gang in Michigan.

Trixx didn't hesitate once when taking up Hazard's offer. After all, she had never mentioned her real name anywhere - not even at work. Trixia Fuentes was her alias, but her street name is Trixx Fuzz. Of course, neither of those two names were real, but to survive, she could never reveal her true identity.