Father figure Frank held my hand as we walked up the hill, there's great places ahead he promised. My red soles, the ones my mother allegedly wore when she had her third abortion, kept falling of since she had monstrous feet but I had been wearing them for ten days and I wasn't about to give them up just because that hippie asshole wanted to go hiking.
I've been running up and down Maslows stairs all day darling, I can't do this I said and fell down.
The organza I'd wrapped my burning body with earlier was now sticking to my skin and I could feel the stench of semen, blood and weed catching up with us. I don't smoke anything but Benson & Hedge, but he wasn't as picky. Frank took three big gulps of gin and handed me the bottle.
What are we, animals?
Ice is an illusion, if you're thirsty drink water!
I never really understood what we where doing there, with the awful sign in the background yelling at us that this is the fucking city of dreams. Father figure Frank knows I hate it. But then again, when did that ever stop him.
He asked about Dubai, about where all my cloths had gone and how I got home. I finished the bottle and later woke up on the terrace with the sudden urge to drown myself in the pool.