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rue never denied that she needed to be high. as vital as air, water and food, it was the basic stepping stone in her maslow's hierarchy of needs. rue did not deny it - rather, she emphasized it. everybody, over here, everybody look: twisted ketamine sprinkled ribs, cocaine nose, stupid blank eyes. dull and useless.
she was worse than a prostitute. prostitutes have principles. rue has no principles. and she is not paid for her addiction. she is also fucked in various ways: in the gums, on the vein, in the ass and nostrils. "prostitutes > drug addicts" that's exactly how and no other way, she tweets and is again cancelled by her loyal fifty followers.
she hasn't existed as a person for quite some time. when she became an alcoholic, according to lexie. after her first overdose, her mother assures. gia sniffles her doll nose at her baby chubby face and says she never existed at all.
rue thinks she doesn't exist since jules vaughn began. jules is soft strands of tinted dead hair, jules is sweet-sweet lips of peach gloss, jules is an ephemeral manic dream girl. they simply shouldn't exist. they don't exist, right? jules is made up?
isn't she?
you can't find her, you can only paint her image with your eyes closed when you're on drugs. thin hands, old eyes on her young face, a blurry Cheshire smile.
zing. the vibration on her hand, it goes into her head unbearably clear and painful - fucking intoxication, bitch - jules vaughn. jules is the same in life, too. a shot of electricity right into your ruthlessly drugged brain.
jules was a very wrong constant in her life. among the clots of bloody snot after powders, among the bruised veins, among the sickly pale gums and crumbling teeth falling out, among the sunken dark eyes - jules seemed even more cartoonish. sailor moon girl, parody, caricature. floral pleated skirt, top on small neat breasts and a pasted-on white-toothed smile under big frightened eyes, like an abrasion.
cartoon girl.
ethereal, unloved, beautiful as the hour of death, as the unbearable wedding of a doomed patient right in a hospital bed. her eyes drove rue mad. sad, frightened, deer eyes. under such eyes you bent to the ground with guilt. for her you want to be better and more beautiful than you are, you want to burn your heart out and throw coal at her feet. look, beautiful princess, take my offering.
jules is unbearable. she is easy to love and hard to hate. rue manages to do everything at once and is very pleased with herself.
rue rides in the backseat, with a broken phone screen shining brighter than gold in her hand. "If u leave I'll leave with u." and emoji. fucking emoji.
jules was oozing those fucking emoji. hearts, horses, boxing gloves, ribbons, and even fucking pointe shoes. it seemed like apple's designers were drawing those fucking emoji day and night just so jules-fucking-vaughn would use the whole fucking spectrum available. these cutenesses poured out of her, and venom dripped from her rotten mouth. did she see green and burning venom on jules' lips or was that a hallucination? or a metaphor for something offensive? or a hallucination for something offensive? or did her brain fail her? or fuck off Jules?
in the cool neck of the bottle you could see the bottom, and at the bottom there was universe and a promise: calm. you will be calm. in the womb it is not even as calm as if you drink it now. rue sips and types a reply with one hand. the cab driver squints his eye in the rearview mirror, but remains silent.
she answers something like "iiiiii der". shit. she meant to say "I see."
fuck it.
received. read. at the same second the ringtone is heard.
"rue?"
hope in her voice. sweet as molasses, sticky and gross. "rue?". hope that it wasn't the hospital worker, hope that it wasn't her mother and the crying gia. this has happened before. "rue?"
"rue?"
"yes?" the voice rattles in her throat and scratches it. not just her throat itself, jules too. rue is almost home.
"are you okay?"
"why do you only call me when you think that I'm dying?" rue says.
there is silence on the phone. the rustle of jules' breathing echoes in rue's ears. rue drinks again. and again. and again. until she feels sick.
"and you're a bitch. just like always" a nervous giggle. a fucking giggle. is she laughing?
rue sees nothing funny.
jules always laughs as if that will solve all problems.
"fuck you, jules vaughn"
rue counts the beeps. as it always does when someone hangs up - there are exactly three of them.