Kate Moss Does Heroin With The Help Of Chanel - Part Two

Continued From Yesterday

Kate Moss rose from the carpeted floor and sat on the leather couch. She grabbed the bottle of Dom Perignon and took another swig, actually a big swig, the alcohol going down her thin throat in gulps. She felt the liquid warm her aging and abused stomach, and she got a rush of dizziness. Not the kind of dizziness associated with nausea, but more that of a gentle high. This surprised her given the amount she had consumed in the last two hours. It must be the site and anticipation of the plastic bag of powder. Cocaine. It must be cocaine. What a gift. Though she had spent a good deal of time in the Arizona desert drying out from drugs, the Arizona thing was more for show than anything. She still smoked her sixty to eighty cigarettes a day. She still was able to drink. Alcohol, that is. She even had a few Demerol here and there to keep her smiling through the burning Arizona sun. As she saw it, it was a vacation.

Kate Moss opened the Ziploc bag and stuck her right index finger in, scooping a small amount of the powder with her unpolished nail. She noticed that her nails were becoming very yellow from the constant nicotine that swirled around her fingers, not to mention in her arteries. Hell. Big deal. There was always polish to cover such things. The powder looked like cocaine. She placed it on her gums. It tasted like cocaine, but then she was so drunk it was really difficult to discern one taste from another. Before she was able to feel the effects of the gum absorption, Kate scooped some more with her nail and snorted a small mound. Well, maybe a big mound. She really didn’t focus on the amount.

The drug went straight up into her forehead and seemed to tingle her eyeballs, the tingle spreading around into her temples, and then a drape of a euphoric calm waterfall plunged down into her chest. OK. OK. This was not cocaine. Damn. This felt like heroin. Her throat tightened, which Pete told her might be a sign of too much heroin too fast. Her first instinct was to grab the bottle of Dom Perignon. Kate went with her instinct. She gulped, trying to open her throat with the bubbly liquid. The champagne went down the wrong tube, and Kate started to choke. She then felt a tightness in her chest and had difficulty breathing. Fuck. She was celebrating. Who sent this shit. Pete? Was it Francoise Montenay? Or was it some demented asshole, someone she pissed off? Was it Scarlett Johansson? No. No. It couldn’t be Scarlett. Kate was not thinking straight. She tried to stand, but immediately fell backwards, hitting her head on the leather couch.

Kate could feel herself slipping into a sleep state. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. She forced herself into an upright position. The bathroom. Get herself to the bathroom, she thought. Cold water. Cold water. She was not going to call for help. The drugs. All the drugs. The bad publicity would start all over again. Of course, she would probably emerge from another bad spat of publicity. But she wanted to deal with this herself. Kate Moss crawled to the bathroom. He white tank top dragged on the rug and completely pulled off, her black skirt also pulled down off her hips. Then Kate felt a sudden urge to vomit. She had to stay awake for this, otherwise she risked choking to death. She raised herself up with her arms and it came in several bursts, vomit, waves of vomit, mostly the champagne and the cashews and the Quail eggs she had at the Zeta Bar. The puke had this disgusting odor, but Kate did not care, she had to get it out of her. She always felt that vomiting was the best medicine for everything. She even did it at the Arizona resort.

The pool of vomit formed on the lush red carpet below her face as she held her chest up with her arms, her bare breasts dangling in a manner that were no longer firm even though small. Kate dropped her head. It was over. It was all out. This is when the wave of swirling dizziness hit like a hurricane. Kate’s eyes rolled back into her head, but she had the presence of mind to lower herself, her right cheek coming to rest in the pool of warm vomit as she fell into a deep unconscious sleep.

Twelve hours later, Kate Moss awoke with dried vomit on her face and in her hair. She had fallen with her legs and arms in contorted positions, restricting the flow of blood, and so she barely could feel any of her limbs. She had a pounding headache which she attributed to the champagne and the heroin, not realizing that it was nothing more than a nicotine withdrawal since she had not had a cigarette during the twelve hours of being unconscious, a period of time where she would have normally smoked sixty cigarettes. Kate pushed herself up and slowly stood, her tank top pulled down and her skirt at her knees. She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and saw a skinny, disheveled, wasted girl. She smiled because she was so skinny. She smiled because all she saw was a wasted millionaire who would take a shower, have some coffee and a thousand cigarettes and start a new day. More mischief. And no consequences.

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