Yes, she's a prostitute. That's what they call her. They see her like a piece of flesh that lacks feelings. They avoid her and abuse her during the daytime. Yet, she becomes their princess at night. And the same people who spit on abuse her knock on her door. She feels like a puppet, controlled by other people, doing whatever the customer tells her to do.
She wakes up every morning feeling dirty. Every muscle in
her body aches, her head wants to give away to the tremendous pain. A mixed
feeling of emptiness and hopelessness fills her. She doesn’t know what she
wants in life anymore. All she knows is that selling her body earns her enough
money to pay her rent. She doesn’t know where she’ll go or what she’ll become
when she’s too old, when the customers stop coming or when her body’s no longer
appealing. She doesn’t know who’ll be there by her side when she’s finally
free.
She didn’t choose this life. Yet, they always said that it was her fault. Was it her fault that her own uncle raped her when she was only six? Was it her fault that her father was a drunkard? She wanted to become a teacher. She wanted to get a better life. Was it her fault that her stepmother sold her to the agent that brought her here? Was it her fault that the rich customer had already paid the agent six thousand bucks for a new girl?
Her face still has a hint of innocence in it, making her even more appealing to her customers. Even through the heavy layer of makeup, you can see her beautifully drawn eyes. But you can’t see the sadness hidden far below those eyes. She wanted to cry, she wanted to let all of her pain flush out. But the tears of sorrow in her eyes had dried up. All she was left with was the unbearable pain and only the eerie silence to listen to her remorse.
Even the small spider at the corner of the room mocks her now. The society treats her like an outcast, as if walking in the same roads as she does will destroy their holiness. The make-shift holiness that they used to cover up the evil intentions in their minds. She was still alive, but only physically. Her soul had betrayed her body decades ago. She was a criminal. She was a criminal to her society, her family and even to her God. But more than that, she was a criminal to herself.
She didn’t choose this life. Yet, they always said that it was her fault. Was it her fault that her own uncle raped her when she was only six? Was it her fault that her father was a drunkard? She wanted to become a teacher. She wanted to get a better life. Was it her fault that her stepmother sold her to the agent that brought her here? Was it her fault that the rich customer had already paid the agent six thousand bucks for a new girl?
Her face still has a hint of innocence in it, making her even more appealing to her customers. Even through the heavy layer of makeup, you can see her beautifully drawn eyes. But you can’t see the sadness hidden far below those eyes. She wanted to cry, she wanted to let all of her pain flush out. But the tears of sorrow in her eyes had dried up. All she was left with was the unbearable pain and only the eerie silence to listen to her remorse.
Even the small spider at the corner of the room mocks her now. The society treats her like an outcast, as if walking in the same roads as she does will destroy their holiness. The make-shift holiness that they used to cover up the evil intentions in their minds. She was still alive, but only physically. Her soul had betrayed her body decades ago. She was a criminal. She was a criminal to her society, her family and even to her God. But more than that, she was a criminal to herself.
