Brindle was all dime store cosmetic allure and overlong eyelashes dwarfing her face, attractive only to certain types of men from the wrong side of the tracks.
Everyone said she was no good, that she would be her own ruination.
She did business on her back, while dreaming of spreading her wings and broadening horizons, but she owed her soul to heroin. She had to have the drug to blur the faces and perversions that were her survival.
But she dreamed of better things, a better life teeming with love, until she was three months gone and her fate was sealed.
They said she had dried out and gotten her act together; she bore a girl child in a rehabilitation center, still on the straight and narrow, and returned to her home plus one.
But wagging tongues and cold stares finally broke her. Paramedics found her with a needle in her arm.
Her daughter attended the solitary service, watching alone, as they lowered the casket into the earth.
Everyone said she had grown quite beautiful in her late teen years, and spoke in hushed tones of what a shame it was that she had inherited Brindle’s poverty.
She was all dime store cosmetic allure and overlong eyelashes dwarfing her face, attractive only to certain types of men from the wrong side of the tracks.
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