Epilogue

Trixie’s career was worse off than when she started. A fifty year old drag queen doesn’t have many prospects, and she slept with what seemed like every director and producer in the US but she never had her big break. Once her voice started to go, she couldn’t find another drag show, she was now a waitress at a greasy truck stop diner. Her weekly pay check barely covered her rent, and what was left went towards drugs.

It was the drugs that killed her. She sat alone on the floor of her tiny apartment. She gingerly wrapped the band around her upper arm, pulling the knot tight with her teeth. She held the syringe in her had, and she remembered the night after the first show with Roger, he was so nervous as she stuck him with the needle.

She plunged the needle into a vein, pausing before releasing the drug. The sharp pain of the needle was devoid of the lust she felt with Roger when pain coursed through her body. The drug began to take the edge off her grief. She threw down the syringe and picked up another.

The second hit stung her head as her mind raced. Every touch of Roger’s skin against hers seemed to come back to her. Her back arched and her muscles spasmed as the drug raced through her blood. She rocked back and forth, the room spun around her and she closed her eyes to block out the image of Roger standing in front of her.

The third hit gave her goose bumps. The spinning room picked up its pace and the image of Roger stayed even as her eyes close. She could fell him enter her again; she could taste his blood, his sweat, his soft skin.

The fourth hit melted into the fifth, and she was back beside Roger. His hips crashed into her as he thrusted inside her. She rolled her head back and cried out. But he was gone. She was alone, her only comfort the sixth hit, which faded to the seventh and the eighth.

“Go away Chris.” A child spat, “Go play with your dolls”

“Freak.” A student whispered to his friends during a passing period.

“Hey babe,” The rough voice called, “ten bucks, and you wont get a better product.”

“What wrong with him?” A familiar sneer flew across the hall.

“I’m sorry, um sir…but I have no tables open, try across the street.” A kind sounding woman cooed before turning to a businessman, “Right this way sir.”

“You’re earning you ‘A,’” The greasy history teacher moaned.

“This is your penance” The man scowled as he brought his hand down to the now flushed pale cheek.

Roger flung Trixie half onto the bed. Her stomach flat on the bed sheets, and her knees on the floor. He forced himself into her entrance, putting all his weight on top of her, constricting her breath, and thrusting all of himself into her, shooting sharp pain through her thin body. Without any rhyme or reason his hip cascaded downward, he flung himself forward and back with fanatical craze.

The room around her faded into black, her last breath gasped from her slightly parted lips.

Your house is on fire,

And your children, they will burn