The tears brimming in her eyes feel like a thousand needles, like red hot fire-- even in her memories it still fucking hurts.
Who's to blame? It's not really her family, a part of her knows that.
They tell you in the program not to blame yourself, rather blame your "addiction." But she only gets her addiction from her father, so maybe she should blame her mom for leaving-- her sister for even fucking existing-- her dad for drinking himself to death...
It's just a sick self-fulfilling prophecy.
The very thought makes her throw her head against the wall.
Well, not so much throw as take all of her body weight that was sitting so catatonically peaceful on her bed and slam herself into the concrete wall beside her.
A barely audible groan escapes her lips as the pain disperses through her body. Another swig from the bottle at her side to make it stop.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and takes a few heavy deep breaths. All of the pain wells up within her chest.
Somehow it feels hollow and full of pressure all at the same time.
Black tears spill down her cheeks, she collapses back against the bed and muffles her cries into the comforter.
A fuck-up. Bitch. Psycho. Drunk. Just like her father...
Her gasps for breath fade. Her cries soften.
Another swig. A tap against the glass for the last drops.
Another sniffle, another pushed down sob and the memory is overtaken by fuzzy little black and white dots dancing in her vision.
There was a district in the City, they called it the 16ths. There was a club— the Colors Club, to be exact. Then there was a girl, and they called her Red.
Red was the best of the Colors you could get. Selling herself, a fantasy— along with a couple drinks, a couple pills, and red dye number 3.
And everything was fine. She was dancing, she was smiling. She was laughing, she was crying.
And she was fine.
**Updates every Sunday**
They Call Her RED: It is the beginning, but also the nihilistic end, of one teenage addict’s attempt to find happiness in the late-stage capitalist hellscape that is the year twenty-nineteen.
All this and more conveniently compacted into a cyberpunk comic told from the perspective of the girl with Red hair— armed with only a deathwish and the cigarette between her lips.
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