Bad blood, really poor quality, nothing that I can drink, I run out of the good one and now how am I going to survive?
I might need to go back in the streets in order to get some more, I promised myself not to do it again, after the last incident, it wasn’t my intention, I didn’t want to, I was just going to have a sip and then run from that place, I truly didn’t mean it, but he had to be there, he had to try to save his mum, and what I was supposed to do? It was me or him, and I chose me, he was so young and beautiful, that face, little creature, I didn’t mean but I couldn’t let you go and let everybody discover me. You could have saved your mum but you decided to try to unveil who I was so in the end I killed you both. I’m not proud about it, I didn’t mean it, I’m not a saint, but I’m not a killer. I’ve never killed a child before, it felt wrong, awful, like if I was tearing apart a small animal and that was too much too bear.
It was so dark… that was the alley way, I was there again, a year after, I made sure after that event to get enough supplies not to have to go in the streets in a really long time, Dante used to come and bring me some presents from time to time, but he was keeping distance as he knew of my mourning. I used to spend days crying, sounds strange I know, but killing that boy, killed something of myself, it was like burying me alive. Dante insisted so many times to get me out of there and go travelling, but I was happy in New Orleans, I got the music, the traditions, sorcery, the jazz of my soul, I couldn’t leave even if I wanted. Dante got more and more impatient about leaving, I didn’t know what he was looking for on me. We had good casual sex, was a good companion and we amused each other, but other than that, we had eternity right in front of us, did he want some sort of compromise? I didn’t know, I guess I didn’t want to know, there were some other aspects of my life bothering me more than my romantic affairs with Dante.
Back in the streets of New Orleans, passing by my favorite jazz bar, some trumpetist was playing Chet Baker’s version of My funny Valentine, and I couldn’t avoid, he just made me cry, I wanted to drink him, to let him dry, as if by pushing my teeth inside his body I could suck his talent and make it mine, so I could make the same music and people will listen to my voice, I would have loved being a jazz singer, I would have loved a life in the jazz, the queen of jazz, and everybody will know my name, and will be moved by me singing and will wonder who I was, and they’ll follow my voice, listen to that beautiful music was the closest I could feel to my redemption.