Luck for the Lonely
Sometimes I think about everything that has happened, and other times I just forget. Some people say that I'm too kind, others say that I'm a harlot for the weak. But it doesn't matter what they say. I don't care. And I won't remember.
Work was over. The night had stormed into play like sudden credits after the cinema of day. The streets were slightly wet from an early rain, and the people lingering upon it were the grime and grit that made this place so known for its harsh nature. The streets of Los Angeles. It was Hell, if there was such a thing. A lot of people didn't even have enough faith to believe in God, but she did.
Xhana believed.
Leaned against the musty brick wall of the Kat's Kradle, she withdrew a cherry-flavored Cherokee cigarette, holding the small cigar-like stick to her full lips. With a drag, the flavor and resolve flooded her lungs, and soon her body. Just a light wave of relief and relaxation. As the object left her lips, the memories of the night itself played like a broken film in her mind. She knew enough to the point where she knew what happened. Just minute-long chunks seemed to be missing.
It were like a collage of images.
Dancing. Men watching. It was a horrible existence that Xhana would wish upon no one, but she did it well. And conservatively well. She danced until the pockets of her watchers were empty. But she never took more clothes off beyond what lay underneath her outfits. She never flashed a man, never let herself to that low. But even still, she was known as a whore for being a 'stripper'. It didn't afflict her though. The ones calling her 'whore' weren't doing any better. To her, a dancer was much better than a drug dealer, a pimp or prostitute, or a fighter. Here on these streets, everyone had to make their living. Why not this way? She was keeping her values intact...
But still, her life was empty. Something was missing. A hole. A chunk of her that was gone and she couldn't remember where it had gone too.
She was lonely. Missing someone. But who?
In her trials of trying to find someone, trying to find a companion or friend, she began letting people in. And not just into her personality and character. Into her home.
Xhana, or Ink as she was known to the streets, let them in. And by them, I mean the homeless. The runaways. From small children to grown men and women. People with addictions and pains and problems- she helped them when she could, and helped them find a life or dream to pursue. Then, she set them free- like birds that had once before been caged. But never could she find someone to keep there, or keep up with. No one to truly fill that piece of her that was missing.
Xhana almost lost hope. But she kept searching. Kept bringing in the homeless...
Snuffing the cigarette, she leaned away from the wall and began the walk to her apartment in Southside. With the many looks she got- mostly for being so marred by colorful images- she never once looked back. Her eyes- such a rich and electric shade of blue- never left her path. And this was the way she went. Up the stairs, and into her apartment.
From there, it was to the bedroom- ignoring the somewhat sad nature of her apartment. The paint- a deep gray- peeling off to show black-painted wall panels. Black floorboards, all of which were somewhat ancient. The furniture was a deep cedar color, and scarce. The sofa and chair was a plush beige with two or three cigarette burns, and the tv itself was a nicer thing- for the early millennium at least.
Crawling into the bed, Xhana rubbed at her lower lip- feeling the itch from inside her mouth. A secret that she carried with her everywhere. Her other hand befell her chest. And her eyes closed.
Emptiness...
And yet her phone buzzed from the nightstand.
I found someone
