This was the worst trip Carla had ever experienced. She recalled Marko’s reassuring tones, and how it was the best shit money could buy. Well, it was certainly shit that’s for sure. Trembling, Carla glanced over her shoulder. The girl was still there, still watching. Carla looked away and gazed at her hands. They were so old. Like fleshy fruit abandoned in the sun, her hands glared back. There was always a catch working in fashion, and it was always worth it. But here, alone in her penthouse, haunted by hallucinations of her younger self; Carla questioned if it actually was.