Almost 48 hours without heroine.  A painful shitstorm before the hurricane.  Here it comes.

She opened the lid and almost gagged.  There wasn’t any toilet paper to line the seat.  She would have to squat.  There wasn’t any time.  Drops of sweat formed and fell from her forehead like the first drops of rain.  She flushed and lifted her skirt.

The toilet belched a series of dirty bubbles.  Nasty, dry heaves roiled the unflushed, soupy content in the bowl.   A foul, sulfury froth threatened to rise above the porcelain levee.  She searched in vain for a plunger.  Rising, rising to overflowing, human filth spilled and splashed onto the floor like vomit.  Revulsed, she backed away and turned for the door.  A slick tile caught her by the heel and down she went, with a grand finale of bright fireworks popping behind her eyes as her head hit the sink.

The wind was beginning to rise when she finally opened her eyes.  With soiled fingers, she touched the painful knot on her head and began to cry, howling with increased intensity.

Blinking through stinging tears, she tried to focus.  She stared up at the smudged walls.  Graffiti preached to her.  A blurry message: God loves you.
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Andrew Dabar