There is glitter around Daisy’s eyes, silver. There is thin blonde hair hanging limply from her scalp. There are small white specs falling like tired snow, light as anything, around the crown of her head. Daisy is visibly wincing; screwing up her eyes as if blinking through dust, emitting a low moan that appears to come from deep within her stomach, from somewhere low and empty. She’s screwing and unscrewing her toes, slender and pale, grabbing tightly onto the furnishings. She’s yelping.
The apartment has shifted in the last few hours, taken on a more sinister tone. The couches are old and beat-up, bits of foam exposed underneath the striped blue fabric, the arm bolsters torn to shreds. No one really notices though, unless they feel it with their fingers, because the light globe has been busted for a week or so.
There’s about ten of them, in this living room, all sitting around her. Daisy can see their faces partially, as the creamy blinds spit bits of light upon them. The light sits sometimes on her breasts, shows the small pink circles under her semi-translucent dress. No one is looking at them now though.
It’s all men there with glitter Daisy, men with flattened chests and sun-brown nipples, men with hardened, peeling feet and rolled up, washed out jeans. Silver-eyes is in the middle of them, making noises that they’ve never heard her make, twitching violently. Dark groaning, no sobs. She’s got her mouth open just wide enough to see a pit of black on the right hand side. There’s a tooth on the ground and a pair of dirty pliers. They’re asking her to finish wailing, murmuring internal pleads in the silences between the thick, ungodly sounds she emits. Daisy, shut it, Daisy shut the fuck up.
She lost her first casualty in the tooth farm and gained twenty dollars and half a pack of cigarettes. She grabs a fistful of hair and pulls out strands of dirty blonde.
