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Tallulah

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Caitlin Thomas Her eyes were tough and hard. They couldn’t be followed, and they were never meant to be starred into. Her pupils held the sole purpose of distress and dilation. Fall finally came crashing out of the sky with enough reassurance to persuade a client to plead guilty. Tallulah was always guilty. But something felt unnatural about this process. She hung her white coat in the living room closet, and joined the ghosts in her bedroom. She slid the boots of her 7.5 size foot, the heel dripping with sweat as she forgot to wear socks. Again. Tallulah poured herself a glass of white. She toasted herself and sank a vicodin with it. She didn’t have a death-wish, though she enjoyed the way the pill sprinted down her throat, the bitter taste fighting her gag-reflex. This could end any form of potential pain, whether it be flooding her green eyes, or burning down her legs. She was going on her 24th year of living. She was fine with it, as she secretly wanted to be thirty years old anyways, that was the fantasy; living in New York or San Fran. Success. Rebellion. Her ink black hair hung over the edge of her beige couch. Her hair was longer than ever, just as she’d always wanted since age six. An authentic-drugged Rapunzel. Fairy tale princess, too many vices. Tallulah’s forehead was sweating. Her bangs annoyed her, moist and sticking in opposite directions, unflattering. Her whole body was sweating now, all 100 pounds. Everyone had noticed the weight loss, everyone talked about it. Her life was now a tabloid trigger, a real subject of interest. If she couldn’t be famous, she thought, this was the next step down. She lit one of her long-stem white candles with a match and thought about her wishes. Yet she quickly dismissed the idea due to the realization she was starting to get everything she wanted. Spoiled, spanked by society with a golden whip, she shuffled for her American Spirits and lit another match. The thought of fire aroused her. And ambition, obsession and candles. Maybe it all meant something. She sighed the smoke and focused on her wine. The haziness of the hydrocodone began. The process of painkillers was usually a triumphant one, nailing any worry to a coffin of unconsciousness.

Profile for Brushfire Literature & Arts

Edition 63 Volume 1  

Fall 2010. Brushfire is UNR's oldest literature & arts journal. Brushfire publishes biannually, check out our website for more info! unrbrus...

Edition 63 Volume 1  

Fall 2010. Brushfire is UNR's oldest literature & arts journal. Brushfire publishes biannually, check out our website for more info! unrbrus...

Profile for brushfire
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