Storytime.

She twisted the chunky ring on her finger, pulled it up only to push it back over her bony limb. Then she looked up, eyes squeezed together to avoid the harsh sunlight. Her mascara was crusty on her lashes, most of it smudged around her eyes.
She had a vile taste in her mouth, like something had died in there. A mixture of cigarettes, alcohol, weed and cum. It was disgusting and still something so familiar.

Her legs were bruised from falling and walking against everything in her way. The very high heels she wore didn't help her stumbling and crashing into stuff. The dress she wore barely covered her bum, her hair was messily thrown into a bun and her make up had travelled all over her face.

She had wrapped her arms around herself, it was cold and she was freezing. When she left her lover, she couldn't find her panties, so she was already certain a cystitis would be her close friend for the next few weeks.

She always promised herself she would stop seeing him, but then, when she met him, his sparkling brown eyes promising her all the things she dreamt of, his dark skin looking so incredibly gorgeous against her pale one and his full lips kissing hers, she knew she would never stop.

When the bus pulled around the corner, she got up and rubbed her arms again. The bus driver looked at her disapprovingly, like he knew what she had done again. She got in, paid and then crashed on one of the seats in the back. A drunk ogled her, his breath contaminated the air in the bus. She leaned over the seat before her and threw up on it. The bus driver did a full braking, rushed out of his seat and yelled at her, the drunk giggled and she just wanted to sleep.