By Monique Rojas
Los Angeles never slept, not really. Its neon pulse kept beating across the cracked sidewalks of Figueroa, in the dead glow of streetlights, in the humming vibrations of cars slowing down just long enough to negotiate, watch, or judge. It was a city built on illusion—of fame, fortune, glamour—and yet it devoured the broken with the same hunger it rewarded the beautiful. On nights like these, Christina and Alexis knew the streets as intimately as a child knew their own bedroom. They walked the blade together, the infinite stretch of asphalt where pleasure and survival were reduced to transactions.
They were best friends, sisters of circumstance, bonded not by blood but by nights of working the corners together, watching each other’s backs, and sharing every cigarette, every bruise, every fleeting dream.
Christina was different. She was softer in spirit and yet so much more brittle. Her mind was not her enemy at first, but it became one. The voices started whispering to her after she turned eighteen, subtle at first—a word here, a phrase there. By twenty-one, they screamed. Christina called them her “shadows.” They told her things no one else could hear; that she was worthless, that she was being watched, that God had abandoned her. Alexis never judged. She listened, she tried to comfort her, but Christina’s eyes would roll back toward the dark ceiling of an invisible sky when the words grew too loud.
That was when heroin appeared in her life, cruel and merciful at once. The first injection silenced the chorus. For a while, the shadows dimmed. Christina thought she had found a cure. Alexis knew better. She had seen the pipe, the needle, the glassy stares from girls who never came back from it. Still, she didn’t leave her behind. You didn’t just leave someone you walked the blade with.
One night in January, Christina collapsed in the motel bathroom they shared. Alexis had gone out for a quick trick, bringing back eighty bucks, when she opened the door and saw Christina sprawled on the cracked tile floor with foam gathering at her lips, a needle still jutting out from the crook of her arm.
“Christina!” Alexis screamed, not caring who heard.
She threw down her bag, leaned over her best friend, and tried to shake her awake. But Christina was slipping away, her breathing shallow, skin a shade too close to blue. Alexis didn’t waste time. She’d seen overdoses before. Fumbling with both hands, she dug through Christina’s purse until she found the small Narcan kit another girl had given her months ago. Alexis had never wanted to use it. Now it was her only shot.
She plunged it into Christina’s thigh with shaking hands, whispering under her breath, “Don’t you dare leave me. Not you. Not tonight.”
After a few agonizing seconds, Christina coughed violently and drew in a desperate gulp of air. Tears welled in Alexis’s eyes as she helped her sit up against the stained bathroom wall.
Christina’s voice was trembling, raw. “I just—Alexis, they wouldn’t stop. The voices. They wouldn’t shut up. Heroin… it’s the only thing that makes them quiet. I just wanted peace.”
Alexis pressed her forehead against Christina’s. “Don’t you ever do that again. You hear me? You don’t leave me out here alone.”
Christina nodded weakly, though both of them knew promises were fragile things when it came to addiction.
The second time came weeks later, in the same shabby motel but a colder night. Alexis had gone to get them food—a couple of carne asada tacos from the stand nearby—when she walked in and saw Christina sitting on the edge of the bed, wrists bleeding, the razor blade dropped to the carpet. The sight stopped Alexis in her tracks, the tacos slipping from her hands to the floor.
Christina barely looked up, her eyes glazed. “I couldn’t do it anymore, Alexis. The voices just… screamed. I thought maybe if I cut deep enough, they’d shut up forever.”
Alexis acted fast, ripping one of their thin towels into strips and pressing them against Christina’s wrists. “You idiot… You absolute idiot,” Alexis muttered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t keep pulling you back from this. But I will. Every damn time. You’re my sister out here.”
They sat there, bleeding towel pressed to skin, the smell of iron and soap filling the room, until Christina slumped into Alexis’s arms, sobbing like a lost child. Alexis held her through the night, rocking her, even as the voices tormented Christina into the early morning until exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep.
Walking the streets was dangerous, but together they felt untouchable. Clients came and went—some cruel, some indifferent, a few weirdly kind. They shared what little cash they made, split motel bills, watched each other’s corners. The shared fight for survival forged them tighter than any friendship Alexis had ever known. When you walked the blade with someone, you didn’t let them go.
In Christina, Alexis saw the part of herself she never allowed to break—the softness, the hope that somehow things would get better. But the disease chewing through Christina’s mind made hope slippery. Some days were good, almost normal. Other days, the shadows came louder than ever. Christina would clutch Alexis’s hand, whispering that the voices told her to run into traffic, or jump off a bridge, or just disappear. Alexis would always squeeze back harder, grounding her in the present, anchoring her to life.
They made each other laugh sometimes too, against all odds. Christina would do silly impressions of clients, or mimic movie stars she had seen in magazines. Alexis would tease her about her messy eyeliner. In those moments, their bond felt untouchable, as if nothing could split them apart.
The end came one hot summer afternoon, beneath a merciless sun that made the asphalt shimmer. Alexis’s phone buzzed. Christina’s name flashed across the cracked screen.
She picked up quickly, smiling already. “Where are you, girl? Don’t tell me you’re working without me.”
But Christina’s voice was trembling, broken. “Lex… they’re too loud today. I can’t make them stop. I’ve tried everything. I can’t live like this anymore.”
“Where are you? I’ll come get you.” Alexis grabbed her shoes, heart pounding.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” Christina whispered. “You’ve saved me so many times. But I can’t be saved anymore.”
“Don’t you talk like that. Just tell me where you are! Hold on until I get there, okay?”
Silence stretched too long on the other side. Finally, Christina’s words came, soft and final: “I love you, Lex. Thank you for being my best friend.” The line went dead.
Alexis sprinted through the streets with a wild, desperate hope, trying to trace where Christina might have gone. Her feet carried her to the motel, her lungs burning. She kicked open the door, and her worst fear crystallized into reality.
Christina hung from the ceiling fan, her fragile body swaying slightly, her dark hair hanging across her face. A chair was tipped over beneath her.
Alexis screamed, ran forward, tried to lift her, undo the knot—but it was too late. Too long had passed. Christina’s lips were blue, her skin pale, her eyes half-closed in a tragic peace.
The world tilted. Alexis sank to the floor, sobbing until there was nothing left inside her chest but pain. The sirens came. Strangers filled the room. By the time the coroner arrived, Alexis was empty, staring numbly as Christina’s body was lowered, zipped into a black bag, and wheeled away.
On the cracked asphalt outside, Alexis watched as they loaded her best friend into the back of the van. The sun still shone, careless and cruel. The cars still passed, indifferent. The blade lived on.
But Christina was gone.
For weeks, Alexis kept walking. What else could she do? The blade didn’t stop for grief. But every corner reminded her of Christina, every motel room stank of her absence. She found herself talking to the air sometimes, as if Christina were beside her still.
“Voices or not, you deserved better,” she whispered one night, scanning the headlights of the boulevard. “You were my sister. And I couldn’t save you.”
Deep inside, Alexis carried Christina’s laughter, their shared jokes, their late-night whispers. She carried the memories of two girls who had once believed they could conquer the streets together. Maybe that was enough to survive another night of a dead corner.
Alexis leaned against the flickering streetlight, her voice sweet, but tired, “You looking for a date?” She asked a man with a single, yellowed tooth that caught the glow of that low light. For a moment, the silence of the city wrapped around them both. A quick deal, an emotionless exchange, nothing new – just another night walking the blade.