Hungover. A thick blanket of nausea suppressed my every waking movement, goading the sleeping alcohol to erupt from my stomach. It had been two weeks since she had left, two weeks since a bottle of strong bourbon a night never seemed enough. ''She'll come back'' I thought, ''and that workhouse whore will stay.'' I grinned ''Whore.''
I uneasily sat up in bed; still half dressed, head still pounding, looking across to see that yesterdays pay was spent on a puerile, lackluster girl. She said she was nineteen, anyone could see she was at least three years younger, now her make-up was covering the sheets. A starburst anarchy of discount foundation and mascarra.
''Cheap, nasty, slut.'' I didnt care, each fuck was always the same, each underage whore was always different. Three-fingerd Marston should keep better check on his merchandise.
Not wanting to endorse any comfort from Marston's cattle I urged myself out of bed but all too quickly for my tender stomach. Blood drained from my face. Throat tightened. Can't breathe. Wretched, dry heaved. Vomit.
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