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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Fantasy · #1570626
A woman is takes a the opportunity to change one bad decision in her past.
THE LOOKING GLASS

“They don’t know they’re being watched?” I asked.

“No.” came the response from no-where and everywhere.

“They’re too caught up in what they’re about to do.” I say quietly to myself.  Sadness floods through me. I look closer at the girl. She is so beautiful, only nineteen years old with no clue to what she’s getting into. It’s like watching a movie you’ve seen over and over… only its real.

I’m looking through the Djinn’s looking glass waiting for the right moment. He said I only have one chance.  He’s gone now but I know he’s watching. I never believed in magical beings before, but I’ve seen hell living on the streets so maybe that counts. I look closer at the glass. They’re talking now. I can’t hear them but I know exactly what’s being said

“Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”  He say’s smiling. I almost melt…again. He had the most wonderful smile. It was that same smile that got me to turn my first trick. That and a well-placed right cross anyway.

“So what’s next?” She responds. I mouth the words to myself as if singing the melody of a sad song.

He speaks without looking up from what he’s doing. “Hand me the lighter.” 

She reaches over to the scuff-marked nightstand, grabs a yellow Bic and hands it over.  He smiles again as he glances away from the potion he’s expertly mixing. His eyes are intense, almost hypnotic. Brian was never a pretty-boy. He was tough and sexy like a cowboy of the old west… but the kind that wore a black hat. There was a danger about him. That’s what attracted me to him in the first place.

The girl sat there on the edge of the bed in nothing but her bra and underwear looking like a lovesick puppy. They had met only two nights ago at a club she had no business being in the first place.  Now here she is, sitting in this little motel room alone with a man she barely knows, ready to bear his children and smoke cocaine.  I hate her for being so stupid.

Brian lights the flame and holds it beneath the spoon containing the precious mixture.  I know this part all too well. I’ve done it countless times. I both love and hate it. The mixture slowly begins to boil, and each time you pull the flame away ever so slightly. Watching the two of them makes me want a fix so bad.  I should have asked the Djinn for an endless supply of dope. I want to turn away but I can’t, must be part of the magic.

He moves the spoon so she can see “See that oily shit floating on top?” he asks, looking at her for the first time.

“Yeah.”

“That’s the coke”

“Wow.” She says.

He leans over toward the nightstand, takes the penny he placed there earlier and begins dipping it in the spoon.  After a moment he sat there admiring the thick white substance now stuck to the edge of the penny.  His next words I’ve heard over and over again. He still says the same shit eight years later.

“I really know how to cook.”

What happens next makes my heart beat so hard it feels like it’s about to tear through my chest and shatter on the floor. Sadness makes my body shake. Tears sting my eyes.  It’s almost time.

Once the coke had dried, he scraped some into a glass pipe and handed it over to her with a smile as if was the best thing in the world.

He grabs the lighter and says, “You go first. I’ll light it for you.”

I watch myself take the pipe and slowly place it between my lips.

It’s time. I say the words the Djinn taught me.

“Tiem Pas”

For a millisecond I feel as if I’m dancing on air. I’m at peace, not the strung out, crack-head junkie, that sells her body for fifty bucks or a hit of dope. Then I’m there.

The girl is the first to notice me. She’s scared but looks past the track marks, dirty hair and bony frame and recognizes herself.  I take the .22 caliber pistol from my pocket, take aim, and fire. Brian slumps to the floor.

I look at myself and say, “ To save our life it cost me our soul.”

The Djinn is waiting to collect. I place the gun to my head and pull the trigger.
© Copyright 2009 Joseph Jimerson (jwjimerson at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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