There's a scent in the air, a flavor. Desperation, hopelessness, degradation, hate, fear, anger, longing. Tangled together to choke and clog. To coat the palate, to add their clinging weight to the skin.

A morass of poverty pretty as an oil slick, deep as a pit.

Just north of a bridge where a sign still warns "don't let the sun set on your ass here" from where it hangs above the charred remains of a beam sunk into the ground; a poor man's gallows, a sadistic mob's truth. They called it the Carnival, and every city had a stretch just like it.

Tired, used up whores who may have been pretty once upon a time hustling another dollar to make the rent, another twenty to buy a fix better than the one they can trade their body for. Street people, scrambling for a break, scurrying to find a place to set up their crib for the night. Dealers slinging their bags, talking bigger than they were or would ever be.

And in between and around the edges, children played in the dirt and filthy streets. Screeching at the top of their lungs in an almost forced enjoyment. Shouting as they played out the same games, in a slightly more innocent manner, that spun out around them on the day to day. Here a game of cowboys and indians ended with someone dancing in imitation of someone jittering at the end of a rope. Cops and robbers turned into blaze-of-glory shoot outs where the cops died and the neighborhood rioted.

Decent people turned their heads, shook their heads, clucked their tongues and locked the doors of their cars as they drove by. Decent people made noises about cleaning the area up, urban revitalization, and kept their wallets tightly shut. Decent people pretended not to see, or hear, what went on one block over.

Amethyst eyes stared into the middle distance in an eerie sort of serenity. Her breathing was calm, even. In her heart, she yearned.

The painful thundering of her pulse was excitement, need. A reaching for the next step. A need for something, else.

Hot water sluiced over her, steam billowed up to condense and cool on tile walls, and she was humming. Singing a soft song under her breath in the throaty purr that was ever present she took her time, leisurely soaping her skin, frowning now and then at the scars. The thigh length fall of nearly white weighed heavy down her spine, dripping as she rinsed blackberry and raspberry conditioner away.

Roses and sandalwood tangled together to perfume the body cream she worked into her skin in lazy, sensual circles. She took her time made sure every inch she could reach received attention and pampering.

When the floaty, flirty swish of the gauzy skirt licked against her calves she smiled again, laughed gaily. Recently painted, pampered, toes and feet slipped into a pair of thong sandals that echoed the deep crushed berry color of the sundress she'd chosen.

She enjoyed her alone time. Enjoyed the time she took to get ready. Bled every moment of the interlude dry before it ended.

From point a to point be she walked, sauntered really in a manner that was equal parts threat, promise, and dare and was, by subconscious design, meant to draw the eye.

When her arms were gently, firmly, pressed to the padded cross she relaxed, waited for the lined restraints to be fastened. Tightened. Tipping her head back as far as she could, the woman surrendered. Gave her throat to the next.

She barely felt the pinch of the needles when they slid them into her arms.
When the barbs tangled through her system and took her down, the woman who might have been Thorn let them wash her away.

Let them take her as far down as they would.

Dead and gone before the paralytic froze her lungs.

A welcoming smile curving her lips, and a crooning hum echoing into silence.

Her name was Stephanie Rose, and the girl who would never be Thorn was wildly in love with every shining possibility of her.

True she'd spent quite a lot of time breathing deep in through her nose and out through her mouth. Held onto the wall to keep her suddenly jellied legs from giving way under her. Gone from " fuck, fuck, fuck" to "no, no, no, no" to "oh god, oh god, oh god" to "thank you." Checked the stick another dozen times as though it would've changed. Spent a long, long while rinsing her face and staring into her reflection's eyes in the mirror.

She'd rehearsed, over minutes then hours, how to tell him. How to break the news. How to prepare for both the best and the worst. Then she tried figuring out which was which.

Her cycles, regular as clockwork since the start, had been off. Off, hell, she'd missed one by a full two weeks. That sent her scrambling to the store to buy a pregnancy test, or five. Five was cautious, not obsessive. That's what she kept telling herself, even while admitting she was being panicky and obsessive.

And then she knew, knew with certainty times five. And when the panic cleared and her stomach stopped twisting and she couldn't hear her heartbeat in her ears anymore, there was joy.

She borrowed her grandmother's truck, a big red beast of a Ford from '69, to drive to his house. The whole way she had to work past the fear, the terror, the dread, had to fight not to turn around and just, not say anything at all. But when she pulled up in front of his parents' house, everything settled again.

There he was, sparring in the front yard with his friend Dave. Training, practicing, teaching. The sun was just right, just low enough to filter through the neighbor's tree and catch his hair, just soft enough to bring out the faint hint of red in the rich, sable brown. Warmed the tones of his skin, fired in his eyes.

She spent more than a few minutes just watching the way he moved. Strike, counter-strike. The give and take of the dance, the way both young men flowed from stance to stance. Really, she filled her eyes with him.

The rumbling engine reminded her to not only park the truck, but to turn the keys in the ignition. As did the way his step-father shook his head, the grizzled grey of his beard twitching in what could only have been amusement. A beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, he was leaning against the door frame, watching the boys, and the half dozen neighborhood kids who were scattered across the front yard playing or watching.

She waved to them, a finger blurring, energetic flagging of a greeting that would never carry with it the merry chime of belled rings, after sliding out of the truck's cab. Tipped her head toward the combatants to indicate she was heading there first, wanted to greet her love before anyone else. Ignored the quizzical, confused narrowing of the older man's eyes, the quick darted looks.

And then they broke, the session timed for a break. And he was holding her, kissing her with tenderness and warmth and all the welcome she'd ever needed. All of it she'd ever wanted. Their hellos were always, always physical things no matter how short, or long their time apart. And she always soaked every moment of them up like a sponge with water.

She drew in her courage, straightened her spine and took him aside. Took him to the shade of the tree and told him. Waited while he processed. While his hazel eyes went from shocked to fearful to wondering to terrified to accepting to joy filled. When his arms closed around her again, they were tighter still, iron bands gloriously crushing the air out of her, making her ribs creak.

The hand he slipped down her belly to rest beside the life they'd created was spread fingered. A silent welcome and promise.

As expected, her mother had indeed thrown a shit fit. Even in a neighborhood as loud and often times violent as their slice was, the ensuing tantrum drew attention.

Jan had a sharp tongue, and more than enough petty vindictiveness exploit anything she saw as a weakness. And for the auburn haired, green eyed junkie with a dissatisfied mouth and a hard, bitter edge to her jaw, everything and everyone was weak. She raged and stormed and demanded. Made impossible plans and threw out ultimatums like stones.

Chain smoking one coffin nail after the other, her words were delivered in a rapid fire manner, the tone pushing them along full of razor edged disgust, and sneering glee. The fingers bracketing the butt of her newest cigarette jabbed, stabbed the air as though boring into the chest of her disappointment of an uppity, useless daughter. There was gleam of sadistic joy just behind the glass green of her eyes.

With his hand on her shoulder, the girl-who-would-never-be-Thorn sat. Quiet and still, though he could feel her quaking, feel the invisible shudders that ran through her as her mother poured her vitriol freely. Twice her grandmother opened her mouth, leaning forward in a manner equally as aggressive as Jan's. And twice the girl held up a finger to hold her back.

When the woman stopped, breathing hard and eyes blazing, the girl leaned forward a hair.

"You done?" The question was rhetorical for she was beyond caring. In a manner that began calmly enough, but for a few breaks in her quiet voice, but soon enough was nearly so brittle and razor edged as her mother's had been, the girl explained just how few options the woman had. Explained just how little she, and her Love cared about the woman's presence in their lives, or the life of their unborn.

"Nothing of mine is yours. and that's how it's always going to be. We're done." She'd been crying then, fat tears of hurt and sorrow that rolled down her cheeks, dripped from her jaw. All those maybes and could have beens, all those what-ifs and if-onlies, melting away in yet another beam of reality's harsh light.

Amethyst held green, hard and flat. Daring the older woman to continue. To say another damned thing. And though her stare was rewarded with silence and dropped eyes, the girl knew this wasn't the end. Knew damned good and well Jan wasn't going to leave well enough alone. Accepted that her mother was incapable of caring for anyone other than herself.

Vivian's smile was small, a barely there thing that was still full of pride, her nod just a dip of her chin. Arthritic fingers tapped the page on the table, the bare bones drawing that'd sparked the confrontation.

"Now the frame work's good, so's the skin, it's the guts we need to fill in an' finish out." Shrewd black eyes snapped up, caught the boy's.

"Your people they know what they're doin'. We need a plannin' session 'tween all'a us. Might's well have a bar-be-cue while we're at it. Get on the horn boy an' set it up."

The older woman sat back, smug in her chair. They had a project to build. Her girl and her family needed space of their own.