I think that slopes are meant to be slippery. I don’t know why. I don’t even know who invented the stupid notion of them. I don’t even know why it matters. Who cares? Who cares about a scarred girl who can’t seem to be by herself ? Who cares about a scarred girl who mops floors and ferries drugs for her boyfriend? The scarred girl should care. But she doesn’t know how and once you let the Maker’s Mark in, once you let anything like that in, like kissing, or sex, alcohol, drugs, anything that fills up time and makes you feel better, even if it’s just for a little while, well, you’re going to be a goner. And sometimes, once, maybe twice, she starts to say that she’s thinking of taking a class with this lady artist, and she stops, because a little mouse taps her brain and heart and whispers, But then you won’t get to spend so much time with Riley, and the words, they turn to stone again, fat in her throat, and she can feel little bits of herself disappearing in the large thing of Riley and me and and and…
The slippery slope, it will never, ever end.
