Suicide Blonde by Darcey Steinke

Author:Darcey Steinke [Steinke, Darcey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2012-11-26T20:00:00+00:00

I put the paper into my little wooden chest, latched it, set the alarm for midnight and turned out the light.

THE BARTENDER TOLD ME TO GO UPSTAIRS. IT WAS A RELIEF TO get away from the leering men at the bar. The stairs were steep, covered in bruise-blue linoleum. At the top was a white door with a black sign that said PRIVATE. I put my hand on the doorknob and there was a sudden buzz. I pushed it open. The hallway was dark and because I didn't know the geography of the place I stood still for a moment letting my eyes adjust. The air was warm and damp and I could hear the sound of bubbling water. I walked ahead. There were giant fish tanks set into the wall on either side, dreamy angel fish, transparent guppies and pencil-thin silver ones. The tanks alternated with doors and windows. Moving toward the spiral staircase, I thought the woman in the first window was a mannequin, but then she looked up. A well-practiced look, a touch of naïveté, a question, and the perfect amount of distance, the kind of distance that elicits desire. She wore a white corset, the same shade as the shag carpet. There were other women, one wore a blond floor-length wig. She spread her legs, showed me her rouged cunt.

The blue lights made it seem like the whole place was underwater. I climbed the metal stairs. Madison's room was huge with the same thick white carpet, round white couches and a bed with a fuzzy white bedspread. Madison was near a white table, sitting in a white leather bucket seat. She wore a baby doll nightgown and patent leather go-go boots and said without turning, “Could you help me?” She was carefully heating the bottom of a silver spoon with a lighter. She slapped her forearm, made a fist, told me she hadn't medicated herself yet this morning, asked if I would hold her bicep until she found a vein.

“Couldn't you use something else?” I asked.

“I want you to do it,” she said fiercely, “NOW.” She slapped her other hand against the table and I quickly clamped my fingers thumb to thumb around her upper arm.

“Tighter,” she said, “these veins aren't for shit anymore.” Her arm marbled, then turned pink, the veins puffed up and she finally found one she liked, in the delicate underside of her forearm. She loaded the syringe. I hated how the needle slipped in, as if her flesh were butter. There was a bloody backwash that tinted the heroin rose.

“Let go,” she said, pulling the syringe out. She pressed a tissue over the vein, folded her arm up, then slid back into the chair. When Madison saw how startled I looked she laughed.

“You're not one of those people who consider seeing your parents argue intense?”

“I think seeing a seagull with a broken wing on the side of the road can be just as horrible as—”

“As what?” Madison asked. “Getting raped?”

“No,” I said, “of course not.

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