Neecy and relapse: Hunts Point, Bronx
Neecy was dead to the streets, no longer buying drugs, no longer selling sex. The street was convinced she was shot by a john, her body dumped in the river. No. She was living in a small room, down to only smoking menthols, to only selling the Lord. She was true clean, not Hunts Point clean. Detox and rehab.
After three months she came back to Hunts Point to bring some brochures of salvation to old friends. Her body, gnarled from twenty-seven years of drugs and prostitution, now finally clean, gathered itself together and kept pace with her huge smile. “I feel great.”
Two weeks later she was living under a bridge, in Michael’s cave, nude save for blankets, fresh marks on her skin. She hugged me, and broke down in tears. “Want a story? How about relapse. How about a girl gets a bit of cash, gets lonely, misses her friends. Please don’t judge me. I am already embarrassed enough for myself.”
She wouldn’t let go of me, sobbing and shaking. “Can I get you anything?” “No. I don’t deserve shit.”
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