She cut her hair and dyed it black; made machetes of those sweeping cheekbones, made a mockery of that mouth. She grew thinner and thinner and her collarbone heart jutted for him. No one saw her, so no one knew that she was finally beautiful.
And she wore his jacket, play of a play on words, but everything was wonderland these days. The girl she didn't know cut a deck of tarot cards and lines of coke and unraveled all her rabbitholes.
Did you have a name? the girl asked, and set the queen of cups on her side. You did, once.
Jack, she said, but even her tongue cracked and betrayed her. Took his name away, made it into something bitter and foreign.
The girl put one finger on her throat. "I think," she said, "I'll call you Judas."
Her eyes were green. Girl Contraband couldn't argue.