In the Nick of Time (10 page)

Thus, she lost important opportunities and occasions. Her breasts, those adorable pint-size sprightly things she was just lamenting over, proved no longer so fucking adorable anymore. They’d filled with disease like water in a balloon and made her a victim of chronic pain, misgivings, ridicule and self-persecution. Thus, she took medication to simply get through her day, manage it so she could think straight, tend to the tasks at hand. Uncertain of the date and time, but somewhere between the road of agony management and the delivery from a world she was becoming a stranger to, she became addicted to the medication.

She’d fallen, became twisted and vacant, transformed into someone she no longer recognized. She’d do
anything
for relief—steal, lie and cheat. Her body lost many battles, and tried to lose the war, too. The same damn body that made her a millionaire was the same physique that now had her scrambling for checks and balances. The same figure men and women coveted was now looked upon with confusion and disgust.

At various times, it held hardly any weight and purged the bit she could hold onto with a slippery grasp. It charged up a tab that she didn’t order and made her a slave to a debt she couldn’t pay. But it managed to keep
one
thing and
one
thing only—her addiction. Oh yes, it was true to
that
, married at the pointy, bony hip. It drove her forward, made her do and say crazy things to stay afloat, some of which made her sick to relive

The lies… all those fucking lies…

Reminiscences, bits of memories, floated to the forefront of her mind.

What was she all about? Who was she?

A spy.
I’m a spy…

She’d always been a curious child, and later in life, her subtle prying and data gathering skills proved useful in feeding her drug habit. From mundane tales of shopping adventures to more serious criminal admissions—she’d heard it all. In the process, she’d learned a lesson about the world, life, and her own self, too.

Trust no one. Or at least, vet the hell out of everybody that crosses your path.

There were two things in life you could never place a shred of reliance on, under
any
circumstances—a drug abuser’s word and a desperate man’s plea…for they were often one and the same. Not only that, she knew other things that would make Frieda and everyone else consider her a serious security breech if they could read her sordid mind. When bored, her brain did strange things, and she dove head first into all that was forbidden, scoffed at, and prohibited.

Curiosity killed the cat. There was yet another reason, one more that served as an excuse but was also wrapped in validity—she refused to not know what was going on around her at all times… She’d never be in that ‘clueless’ position again; it had happened once too often, and cost her both financial and emotional damage. No one would think the super model would play these games; she looked so innocent, and she surely couldn’t be that smart, now could she? She’d keep to herself, not tell a damn soul…

Taryn had memorized the staff schedules from front to back, for there was a time when she’d planned an escape. Her mind worked like a steel trap or infinite library. Almost anything she read and saw, she memorized. It was her
job
to know. The very first time she ended up in treatment, it was court mandated. She had no damn choice in the horrid matter and spent her weary mornings, dreadful afternoons, and long, tedious nights devising crafty plans that included scaling buildings with knotted sheets and getting bus tickets to faraway places. After growing wiser and stronger, she stopped fighting the addiction, embraced it, thanked it for its fucked up stint—and told it the time had come for it to go. They could not live in harmony, and it proved no friend; it was her foe.

She could no longer protect her dependence, coddle it and allow it to harm her, for it was killing her, little pill by little pill. She tried so hard to do her own thing, be independent, all the way since childhood. Yet, she’d allowed the drugs to boss her around, tell her what to do. No one was the boss of her, and once that became truly crystal meth clear, she’d devised a new plan. The damn addiction wasn’t paying any rent, but taking up all of the space within her and offering nothing in return.

It didn’t love her back the way she’d once loved it. Her addiction had stolen her dignity, made her fall from grace, physically sicker, weaker, and less reliable—all the things she detested. Life tried to snuff her out, and by some merciful grace of God, she was still standing, speaking clearly and coherently, running about like a giddy child, walking straight and talking the witty shit she liked to speak. There was no way in hell she could let it win—she’d come too far! This proved a daily battle, but she was accustomed to fighting, for that was what warriors do…

She’d endured the brutality of the modeling industry—the hidden aspect of it, the one that saw her as a size, a race, and a pretty face. They’d molded her into an erotic and exotic heifer amongst a herd of glassy-eyed cattle, a paper doll with no heartbeat perched in front of the perfect backdrop with a diamond collar around her slender neck. But who held the chain? Dolls… dolls had no heartbeat; they simply sat pretty, their dresses pressed, their legs straight, and no blood to draw, no emotions to feel. That’s how she felt, even at times when she’d view herself in the magazines… mere figurines. No blinking… no expression… just a body being played and toyed with, then tossed aside for a newer version.

All those shows where she’d move as if she had no knees, the make-up so thick, she could barely feel her damn face, a paddle brush combing harshly against her tresses, ripping some out along the way, and her trying to not sweat under the harsh lights, all to simply get the perfect shot, create an illusion for real life people to grasp at. And in the end, they’d end up broke and disappointed, no closer to the artifice than moments previous.

Damn. Dolls.

She was nothing more than a beautiful liar, a paid pretty face, a photo-shopped fantasy… but…she loved the damn clothes.

…But I’m still a doll.

Too many people wanted to be one, without understanding that dolls have no soul…

…And she wanted her voice back.

She couldn’t hate it all, though. There were good days too, and despite her jadedness and disheartening experiences, she recalled those golden, precious moments. For instance, there were virtuous designers—hailing from all corners of the world—who’d treated her like a human being, not a number or two-dimensional entity. She simply could not color the whole ordeal charcoal gray and deny the rainbow filter that shined through every now and again.

And lest she forget, the dedicated photographers and other hard working models who had become close companions, forever friends, some even like sisters and brothers, helping each other along in the vicious dog eat dog business of Mother Fashion who was known to eat her own young. Her dear friend Vicki, one of the top models in the game, had the business acumen of a damn shark. Her beautiful face fooled many, and she’d taken the time to mold Taryn, give her a crash course on who to trust and who to avoid like the bloodthirsty piranhas that they were. Those occasional people who truly got it and remembered their humanity made the experience worthwhile, made her feel extraordinary and more than just a coveted surface and long, lean body with thick, dark hair.

She’d survived breast cancer,
twice
to be exact; the bitch had double dipped, turned around for seconds. And now that same fucker was in remission, put on ice, hopefully to never rear her ugly head again. Taryn would be damned if she was going to sucker punch her health in the face by succumbing to the temptation of the very thing that would wreck her immune system and make her unfit to ever model, dance, lift a pencil, sew a thread, or even listen to music again. So, she tucked her collected Firststone intelligence away and tossed all plans for a grand escape to the side, under and over the moon…till death do her part.

Well, that’s over now…

She slumped onto her thin bed with the stingy mattress as John Coltrane’s, ‘Blue Train’ played like an eargasm line dance. She smirked and bobbed her head to the beat, tapping her foot just so as she fell into the seductive groove. Swaying from side to side, she was soon snapping her fingers, falling into the pure pleasure of it all.

“That’s right. I’ve not lost everything. No, ma’am!” she shouted high to the rafters, her smile as big as the setting sun. “I
still
have my good ear, my great sight, and I know a worthy tune when it comes my way!!! Go, Coltrane, go!!! BLOW THAT HORN!!!” She hooted, her old, tired soul living it up to the fullest. The man with the clarinet made her feel sexy…made her feel clever, vibrant, gold and silver and tingly all over.

…And Mr. Coltrane did as he was told, rubbing her just the right way all through the night…

J
azz was standing
there holding a dented in can of Goya beans. In the other hand, he held a cold, dark bottle of Coca Cola, beaded up with condensation, sweating under the blazing sun. The skinny teen was blacker than the inside of a hippopotamus’ mouth, and his forehead was particularly short, causing his eyebrows and hairline to look as if they were only a mere inch apart. This gave him the oddest of appearances, like an emaciated Frankenstein. His long legs had no larger or smaller portions, being all of the same width, like dark rubber bands stretched taut across a wooden board. All Nick knew was, he wanted that fucking soda…

Desperation tapped him on his shoulders and dared him to make a move. It was hot as the gold chain necklace he’d lifted last week. Mom was broke, and he’d searched the place for hours trying to find spare change. It had been a dismal day for luck. And his had just completely run out.

“Yo Jazz! You gonna hold that and shake it around like your little dick or give me a taste?” He threw on a snaggletooth grin, and raised his dirty dark blue and white striped shirt from the bottom hem, moving it swiftly across his face to collect the latest sweat offering for the Sun God.

“Nuh uh, Nick. You was…you was…you was just talkin’ a bunch of shit about me this mornin’. I ain’t sharin’ wit’ you.”

Jazz was taller than a damn tree. He had a slight speech impediment that caused him to speak as if he were an album playing on the lowest setting on repeat, and he was also someone Nick enjoyed tormenting every now and again for the sheer hell of it. The boy was at least five years older than he—had to be seventeen, but because he was slow in the head, it was like taking advantage of a baby. Regardless, he never meant the bastard any harm, but that may have to soon be changed as his thirst grew even stronger and his stomach grumbled a bit louder, reminding him that being a nice guy and being hungry and thirsty could seldom co-exist.

“Come on, Jazz! I only want a taste! Now look,” Nick’s tone softened as he took a gentle step towards the withered giant, “we can do this real easy like, or we can do it all rough.” He laughed lightly and threw up his hands as if the jerk had left him no choice. “I didn’t even ask for your fuckin’ beans. I coulda took those, too! I did you a favor!” An angry burst of heat ignited within him as he lunged for the boy’s hands, and though Jazz may have been slow, he was faster with his maneuvers than Nick had anticipated.