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The nights were a blur of bars and little parties in smoke filled hotel rooms. People came and went in her field of vision. Some hostile, most friendly enough or disinterested. At one point she woke up on a couch in one of the bungalows behind the Chateau Marmont, an olive skinned old man with a thick gray mustache was on his knees in front of her, between her legs, dropping little kisses here and there. The tickling of his mustache on her thighs startled her awake and she scrambled away from him. Her skirt was pulled up over her hips and she was distinctly aware of the fact that her underwear was missing. In a panic she looked around the room, but didn’t see them. The suite was a mess of strewn clothes and empty food containers and smelled like cabbage.

“I have money for you,” the man said in an Eastern European accent. Horrified, Bette stumbled out of the bungalow and nearly fell into the pool. She was wearing her pink angora sweater and a skirt, but it was filthy. The angora was matted and stained brown and red down one side that she thought may have been blood. She wasn’t sure if would rather find out that it was her blood or a stranger’s.

What sleep she did get was full of incoherent and confusing dreams. Sometimes she would wake up on the couch and smell Martha’s coconut perfume or that nauseating stink of cough syrup. One night, she awoke from a terrifying dream about her father to the feeling that someone was licking and sucking at her fingers. She couldn’t gather her thoughts well enough to investigate, but the feeling was somehow comforting and awful at the same time. The next morning she woke to find her forearm and hand crusted with dried blood.