Monday, August 10, 2009

The Russet Whore

She is alone again, standing in her room, enjoying the silence and the peace that it brings. It doesn’t happen very often, so she relishes what little time she has for herself. She knows it won’t last long. It never does. She looks at her body and sees that the years have been harsh to her, her ribs protrude from little food and her breasts are beginning to loose their youthful shape. She notices once again that her body is red in patches. She knows that it will only mean that the colours will turn to yellow and black as she bruises. It doesn’t surprise her anymore, nothing does. She looks over at her small bed, still crumpled and soiled from her last customer. Years ago she would’ve winced at the things that he had done to her, but times have been rough and she has changed, adapting the best she can. She picks up the wrinkled dress off the floor and slides it over her sore body. She loves the dress more than anything in the world, it is the only thing she has in which she can call her own, even her own body is not hers anymore. She smoothes out the russet, silk fabric with her hands, which is beginning to tatter with age. She must tighten the corset strings at the back, noticing that she has become the thinnest she has ever been. She wonders if she will survive the winter to come, or starve like so many of the others. At least she has a place to live and a little food; as long as she can continue to earn her keep. She knows that must keep up her appearance as best as she can. She walks over to the small mirror that hangs on the wall. The first thing she notices is that the lace around her collar has begun to come loose and her sleeve has been partially torn away from the shoulder. She knows she must fix it before the Mistress of the House finds out, because nobody likes a whore with a swollen face. She would loose more clientele and she knows she can’t afford to. She picks up a small brush and tries to brush the tangles out of her auburn curls, but knows it to be an impossible task. She barley recognises herself in the mirror anymore. She no longer sees the youthful beauty that was once filled with hopes and dreams of a future. She only sees a woman, older in appearance than in actual years, a woman who has seen too much to believe that a future actually exists. A knock comes at her door and it swings open before she has had a chance to cross the room to it. He comes in and grabs her. She doesn’t even stop to see what he looks like. She doesn’t need to, after so long they all look the same to her. He pushes her into the bed and rips the sleeve of her dress. She is not surprised. Nothing surprises her anymore.

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