Celie. If you don’t help me, I will die.
I just sneezed and lost a quart of blood.
Babe I love you but holla back in four days when you’re done bleeding and lying. I forgot I don’t talk to you during The Fuckening.
A growl leaves me.
I toss my phone across the floor.
Then crawl to it, snatch it up,
and stand like a ninety-year-old woman.
“Hey, Brooke.”
AI Brooke:“Yes, Miss Allison?”
“Cue The Fuckening Playlist.”
I sigh, snatching a hoodie off the hanger.
“Need a little pre-game for my heroic solo journey to Duane fuckin’ Reade.”
AI Brooke:“Now playing: Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells. Bleed responsibly.”
All my senses are heightened.
Manhattan’s smothering me?—
garbage, beer piss,
steam from a food cart I can’t run away from.
I can smell the sins of this city.
I can hear heels punch concrete.
I can taste blood pooling in my gums.
I’m walking the streets slower than usual,
hand on my stomach,
groaning under my breath,
one foot dragging behind,
one hot flash away from bursting into flames,
one cramp from biting someone.
No bra, black hoodie, black joggers,
black shades swallowing half my face.
My hood’s up. My hair’s tucked.
Sunlight dodged.
