Pale Sienna Beauty
One
I don’t want to tell a story about my life or my struggles. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me because I’ve been kicked down so many times that I stopped caring. The people who lived around me didn’t care, so why else should the bigger part of the world? When you’ve been abused and used you feel as if the only place for you is on the ground, lying face down, breathing in the mixture of dirt and the foul stench of piss up your already damaged nose. The footsteps walking by you in a hurry didn’t care to see if you were breathing or not. All the they saw was a skeleton wearing skimpy cloth for clothing begging for death.
Oh how wrong they were. Death was another one of those people who didn’t care. He no longer knocked at the door or showed up unexpectedly to surprise the heck out of you. Hell, Death even stopped sending those annoying Hallmark cards to show he was always thinking of you. Death ran as far as he could with his scythe tucked between his bony legs and left you wondering, what kind of person must I be for Death to have given up on me.
Yes, I wondered what broken shell of a life must I be living, and the sad truth, at least to the new ones in the neighborhood, I was the bruised and a battered woman lying face down in the gutter faintly listening to drunk laughter, clicking of cheap high heels on the pavement, inhaling the stench of piss and cigarettes and my all time favorite, underground perfume. I was that person Death had long gave up on.
There was no shuddering, groaning, or moaning.
Nothing.
Only my complete and utter silence and waiting to see if that distant friend who now hated me would arrive to outstretch his pale gaunt fingers as a gesture of kindness. My silence remained swallowed whole by the musical sirens speeding towards this hellhole so many of us called home. I didn’t want to try and find out why Red and her brother, who many called Blue, traveled down these poor streets. Nor did I care to figure out. My mind was too damn intoxicated with fumes to think straight, or maybe it was just the numbness from my lively night.
If I had the strength to make a sound, those same footsteps ignoring me would have heard a scoff, or maybe they would have heard something of a choked moan. Either way, who would actually stop to ask, “why are you scoffing in the dirt,” never mind asking, “why are you lying in the gutter,” or the more infamous, “are you okay miss?”
Again, I wanted to laugh. Who in their right mind would care about an empty vessel lying in the gutter.
Surely not the men who wanted to release their rage because their “bitch for a wife” didn’t know how to take it straight, or the ones who liked to whisper “who’s your daddy,” and let’s not forget the rough ones who slaps and leaves you bruised for days spitting in your ears, “you like it rough don’t you, you dirty slut.” Yeah, they were not on the top of my list. They were movements in the night releasing their pleasure before muttering, “don’t forget to clean yourself up” after they zipped up their pants and walked out the room.
No one cared.
Hell, even I didn’t care. After endless nights of staring up at deteriorating ceilings while they slammed and bite their aggression away, everything didn’t really matter. Not the next day or those small tiny words you would whisper pointlessly to yourself.
“It’ll be okay. It won’t happen again.” After a while, you stop caring.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes they didn’t leave you in the playroom. Sometimes they took you for a ride and made you feel like the best toy in the box. Then they played some more before putting their toy away.
My eyes squeezed tight and I could feel the bile rising up from the very pit of my stomach and quickly to my throat. Extra playtime landed me in the broken bin because I couldn’t handle morphing into a chew toy.
Oh yes, the irony of it all, Death’s abandoned toy gets beat on because she’s the most animated in the box. Oh how eyes deceived their master, and mine, well, it was the biggest betrayer of them all.
Behind closed lids I could feel Red and Blue splashing their self-righteous concern against me. I could feel those footsteps cautiously walking towards me whispering “it’s another one” before the tiredly “get an ambulance down here.”
This was a new part of story.
I was suddenly thrown into the glaring limelight of questions and disgust before I could scramble away. For a moment I wanted to thank whoever had called those corrupted angels, but saying thank you was pointless when the mere words were nearly extinct for the rest of our miserable lives.
Or at least mine.
Oh how wrong they were. Death was another one of those people who didn’t care. He no longer knocked at the door or showed up unexpectedly to surprise the heck out of you. Hell, Death even stopped sending those annoying Hallmark cards to show he was always thinking of you. Death ran as far as he could with his scythe tucked between his bony legs and left you wondering, what kind of person must I be for Death to have given up on me.
Yes, I wondered what broken shell of a life must I be living, and the sad truth, at least to the new ones in the neighborhood, I was the bruised and a battered woman lying face down in the gutter faintly listening to drunk laughter, clicking of cheap high heels on the pavement, inhaling the stench of piss and cigarettes and my all time favorite, underground perfume. I was that person Death had long gave up on.
There was no shuddering, groaning, or moaning.
Nothing.
Only my complete and utter silence and waiting to see if that distant friend who now hated me would arrive to outstretch his pale gaunt fingers as a gesture of kindness. My silence remained swallowed whole by the musical sirens speeding towards this hellhole so many of us called home. I didn’t want to try and find out why Red and her brother, who many called Blue, traveled down these poor streets. Nor did I care to figure out. My mind was too damn intoxicated with fumes to think straight, or maybe it was just the numbness from my lively night.
If I had the strength to make a sound, those same footsteps ignoring me would have heard a scoff, or maybe they would have heard something of a choked moan. Either way, who would actually stop to ask, “why are you scoffing in the dirt,” never mind asking, “why are you lying in the gutter,” or the more infamous, “are you okay miss?”
Again, I wanted to laugh. Who in their right mind would care about an empty vessel lying in the gutter.
Surely not the men who wanted to release their rage because their “bitch for a wife” didn’t know how to take it straight, or the ones who liked to whisper “who’s your daddy,” and let’s not forget the rough ones who slaps and leaves you bruised for days spitting in your ears, “you like it rough don’t you, you dirty slut.” Yeah, they were not on the top of my list. They were movements in the night releasing their pleasure before muttering, “don’t forget to clean yourself up” after they zipped up their pants and walked out the room.
No one cared.
Hell, even I didn’t care. After endless nights of staring up at deteriorating ceilings while they slammed and bite their aggression away, everything didn’t really matter. Not the next day or those small tiny words you would whisper pointlessly to yourself.
“It’ll be okay. It won’t happen again.” After a while, you stop caring.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes they didn’t leave you in the playroom. Sometimes they took you for a ride and made you feel like the best toy in the box. Then they played some more before putting their toy away.
My eyes squeezed tight and I could feel the bile rising up from the very pit of my stomach and quickly to my throat. Extra playtime landed me in the broken bin because I couldn’t handle morphing into a chew toy.
Oh yes, the irony of it all, Death’s abandoned toy gets beat on because she’s the most animated in the box. Oh how eyes deceived their master, and mine, well, it was the biggest betrayer of them all.
Behind closed lids I could feel Red and Blue splashing their self-righteous concern against me. I could feel those footsteps cautiously walking towards me whispering “it’s another one” before the tiredly “get an ambulance down here.”
This was a new part of story.
I was suddenly thrown into the glaring limelight of questions and disgust before I could scramble away. For a moment I wanted to thank whoever had called those corrupted angels, but saying thank you was pointless when the mere words were nearly extinct for the rest of our miserable lives.
Or at least mine.
♠ ♠ ♠
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