I sat there, in the cold barren light of the full moon, looking at my scars. It all started with the party pills and ended in the dirty basement of a nearby haunted house. I had arrived somewhere, early in the evening, somewhere loud and bright. Somewhere throbbing and sweaty and a little frightening. I met him there — wherever there was — pressed up against a smooth slick surface while we waited and admired all the pretty colored glass. He called me his French Kitty and smiled just right. He talked about curing diseases and the squalor of the ghetto. He said he was from Warsaw, said it with an accent. I giggled. I don’t even know where Warsaw is. He gave me a little velvet box fastened with black ribbon and offered me something sweet — brittle white icicle sugar, he called it — dusting the cuff of his sleeve. There was a spider in the box … and then I was in the box. I awoke to a mouthful of dust and footsteps on the stairs, shuffling towards me in the gloom. I wished I could see better in the dark, but when the footsteps finally reached me, I wished I couldn’t.

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