• Shining like pale moonlight, she descends upon the masses. Tall and pale, ghost like. Her name meant misery, her life, a meaning all her own. Desdemona, the misery child.

    She exits her apartment late at night and wanders the streets, looking for a way to set herself free. The clubs are packed wall to wall as the pulsating music rocks her fragile frame. People buy her drinks, fruity and stale, hoping to get close to her. Yet she turns them away, her interest is in the smoke filled corner.

    The corner held her people, the loners, the stoners. She walked slowly to them, begging to be let into their cloudy haven. They draw her in slowly as one gets her needle ready. Seated between people, they ready her. Her arm out and tied off, they inject her perfect poison, her special brand of heroin.

    Suddenly, the misery child is full of life again. She dances to the music, her fragile frame suddenly stronger as she drinks down the previously ignored drinks. Her mind reels at the thought of never having to leave this place, the poison running through her veins.

    But the night is over before it really began and the room emptied, people going to the empty streets to head back to the real world. Desdemona is among them, her poison wearing out.

    Looking at the people around her, the misery child falls back into herself as she sees the people coming back to themselves. All they can think about is sleeps sweet embrace, and the hangovers they are bound to feel when the sun rises to show them their true selves.

    And Desdemona thinks. She thinks about her life as it has been, and about her perfect poison. Her body aches for more, wanting one more embrace of its cool grip on her heart.

    The next night, Desdemona is nowhere to be found. Her apartment is empty, the fruity and stale drinks un-noticed. Her smoky corner bare. Her perfect poison is all gone. All that’s left is a freshly dug grave with a headstone that read, “Here lies Desdemona, the misery child. Forever now with her perfect poison.”