There was a time when drugs were enough. Young then, bored, left in the street while daddy worked. A mirror image of every kid on the megablock. Nothing better to do, shoplift, drink, drugs. That seems a lifetime ago. Looking back with more experienced eyes there’s a small sad space where hope in that young girl’s chest once blossomed.

Wet reflections of neon on the jet-black street. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of a man’s jacket. Head down, eyes forward, don’t wanna see nothing that might get you in trouble. Cops don’t come down here, it’s the gangs you gotta worry about.

“Walk, walk, walk…” the sidewalk announces as you shuffle across the street. An elevator ride now is all that remains. Four droogs pass, laughing about their last spat of the ultraviolence. Shrink into coat, nothing to see here. Sigh of relief, you make it to the lobby. A row of cubby mailboxes, some pried open, stand guard as you pass.

Elevator, the last gatekeeper. Stepping inside will end you, resign you to your fate. The smell reminds you of childhood, ruined frozen meals and ethnic food in a stew of stench. Daddy couldn’t cook. You once tried to make something from scratch, from a viddy you’d watched. Your reward, slapped, shaken, yelling about the cost of ruined food, tossed out in the hall, and door slammed while he stomped off cursing. These fucking memories, for the millionth time you wish like a viddy they could be turned off. You feel the anger and hurt of that little girl. An acid burning just under your beating heart. A stab of pain in the back of your throat. The anger moves you forward into the elevator where you stab the button for the 111th floor.

It’s a long cold ride. Frigid finger shove icy droplets from your hair. You decide not to try warming yourself. The cold is awful, but the memories of places like this are worse.

Shivering, like the junkie you are, you find yourself in front of the door. Salvation is just a knock away. A door just like this slamming in her face. You want to knock but know every time is one step closer to the final high. The door looms, and you look away. Tiled floor, black and charcoal. Like the one you were thrown down to when you got caught shoplifting with Johny. It was the first time you looked into a shotgun barrel, praying came easily in that moment. Harder later when your dad arrived. The only thing he said, “A thief too?” Then silence, long horrible silence lasting days.

You knock, desperately, a life preserver in an ocean of memories. Beyond that door the memories die, come to an end. Shivering you scratch the port behind your ear. If only you could dig the memories out from under it.

Devito’s ratty grin welcomes you to his cramped abode. There are piles of discarded tech, the guts of many slain decks scattered, technical manuals, and mysterious stains from the ghosts of fast-food past. A weasel of a man he helps himself to a lingering hug, hands creeping places you wish they wouldn’t. He guides you inside, past the zonies buried deep in BD on the broken couch.

BD, Brain Dance, a form of hyper virtual reality where even emotions could be played back. Devito had the good stuff, the mind-bending expensive ones. The ones that could make you forget everything and live in your own perfectly crafted world made just for you. So real that crushing depression occurred every time the meter ran out and you had to return to the real world. It was the closest thing you’d ever found that could make the memories stop, even for a little while.

“What have you got for me sweetie?” He asks while his eyes glide down to wet cleavage. Closing the jacket will just encourage him, you let him gaze. Grasping a fistful of crypto chips you hold them out in offering.

He licks his lips. Revulsion makes your lip curl, his tongue has been places on your body you’d rather not think about. The credits change hands. More lip licking. Queasy.

He hums, “A little short.”

You look at a discarded bra on the floor, soiled and stained, both the floor and garment. You just manage to squeak out, “I know.”

Ratty smile again, “That’s fine, come along.”

Down a short dark hallway. Come along, said the spider to the fly. You want to run but he pulls you along by the hand.

And there it is. A bedroom. Single bed, battered bare mattress against one wall, is the only furniture in the room. Trash lines the intersection of walls and floors. Discard foodie bags and bits of clothing. You don’t want to know the stains on the mattress are from, but you know anyway. Single bed.

Daddy screams. He then turns to you. You on the single bed. Fists raw from the beating he just gave your choom Johny. Johny, who fled so fast he left all his clothes. You’ve seen daddy angry plenty of times. But this is something different. It turns your spine to ice, freezing you rigidly in place. You want to hide your naked body, but can’t, you lie there like a corpse.

“You fucking slut! You fucking slut. Slut.” His words become jumbled, lips quivering, he stops speaking. Stops speaking to you. You watch as silence fills the room deafeningly. His fists open and close. Grip his belt buckle, undoes it. Silence. He pulls it away. Wraps the synth-leather around his fist.

“slut.” And then the belt comes down.

Slicing fiery pain, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. No more words. Just you crying, begging, pleading. No more words at all.

“Well?” DeVito asks. “You know what the price for this is.”

You do. The jacket tumbles to the floor. Quivering hands work the buttons of your ragged jeans. Soon you are naked. Lying on the bed. The single bed.

DeVito’s eyes roam across your meat. “Oh, I do love a good little slut.” He licks his lips. One finger traces the curve of your chest between bare breasts.

He hands you the chip, wires leading to a special player hidden where a headboard should be.

You can't move fast enough to slot the chip into that port behind your ear. The one where all the memories are buried.

*****

Just a writing sample, certainly not anything that has to be used. But yeah, talk about fucked up worlds to explore slavery, bdsm, non and dub con, exhibition, coercion, corruption, and every other sin under the neon-lit street.

Usual no's – under18, bathroom, snuff, gore...