The Junkie

She reaches into the steel rubbish bin, lined with a pale clear plastic bag. Her dirt stained fingers dig for the aluminium gold, desiring to bestow upon her another nickel toward her next hit. She lifts one soiled arm back to her side, raising it toward the sun, as she pushes it's unwashed sleeve back to her elbow, in a vain attempt to prevent further ruination onto the once white cotton fabric. Her action reveals in the late summer afternoon the bluish purple blotches in her skin, needle point reminders of her soul stealing damnation. She plunges her arm back into the receptacle, rummaging through its fly ridden depths, until she jerks her arm back out. The sunlight glitters on the dull metallic surface of the empty aluminium beer can held triumphantly in her right hand. Her dull eyes briefly glow as she spreads her prematurely wrinkled face, (her youth stolen, another year added by injection) unveiling blackened stubs of decaying teeth, resembling the dark maw of a cavern. She picks up the brown plastic bag fluttering lightly at her feet, and shoves the can within. She drops the bag, and grasps her way once more through the basket, fingers pushing their way pass empty grease stained brown paper fast food sacks, spit adorned napkins, and the alcohol perfumed dribbles of vomit, hoping to strike another five cents, only the search is in vain. Discouraged, she stands up, wiping her gaunt filthy hand upon her faded ragged blue jeans. Then she ambles to locate another bin in her desperate search to score another bag of death's solace.

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