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doomed.

The cold clung to her clothes, sliding under her jacket and setting right into her bones as she sat hunched on a park bench in Hyde Park. She sparked her joint with a cheap lighter, shielding the flame with her palm then leaned back exhaling into the pale London sky. Gray, always gray. Ugh, this city didn't even have the decency to pretend to be bright. She hated it.

Her legs still ached from the night before, reminding her she'd woken up in someone's flat — or maybe a hostel? — barely remembering whose jacket she'd been wearing or where her own shirt had gone. Her mouth still tasted like cheap vodka and something else she didn't care about.

Dulce never cared. Wanting better for herself was luxury and she sure af didn't do luxury. As she took another drag, just let the smoke curl slowly from her lips, the weed mellowed her pulse but unfortunately didn't quiet the thoughts.

She thought of her father, of course. Of the shouting, of the time he shoved her hard enough to bruise and then cried about it afterwards like she'd done something to him.

She thought of her aunt too, the slammed door, the disgust in her voice. The "you're just like him."

Yeah, maybe she was. Maybe that was the problem.

Toto's voice still echoed in her mind: "London's a step up, piba. Don't fuck it up." Uhm, too late for that too.

She pinched the joint between her fingers staring at the tiny ember, wondering vaguely where she'd end up tonight, whose hands, whose couch, whose mistake she'd become for a few hours before slipping out before dawn. But, she didn't hope for anything. Hoping only got people hurt.

The truth was simply and ugly: she wasn't trying to fix anything. She wasn't trying to build a life here. All she was doing was drowning, quietly, without making a scene. And well, London seemed cold and indifferent enough. A perfect ocean for that.

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