to cut you down {{ nyte

A client's pay and then some. Pale green lips twisted into the most spiteful of smiles as I count the bills clutched within polished nails. Fifty, Sixty... The numbers increased with every heeled step, the merriment of their tune against pavement creating the perfect atmosphere to sing of my riches. The breeze whipped against exposed legs, biting a heels only comforted by the thinnest of straps. Normally, I wouldn't even think to wear such garments. They mimicked those of a woman traversing the sandy shores. Fish preparing to throw themselves into the tide and allow it's rage to consume them. They were not meant for a girl merely making her way back to a house void of any others for a few cherished hours.

I've never dressed conservatively, never been bothered by the whistles or glances I received. But I despised these frail cloths hanging to frail thighs. They weren't me. But I had to wear them. To feel power and to be loved and cherished like I never had in my life. I was addicted to the pain which I could inflict on others without so much a lifting a violent hand against them. not that I was opposed to such a notion.

He'd given me four-hundred up front, and with the extra he'd left lying about his drawer, it was a profitable night. Six-hundred seventy-three dollars to add to a growing collection. Remorse has evaded me for many months now, innocence slowly dripping from gaping wounds broken open daily by no other hands than my own. Slow training, like the hours he'd spent forcing me into that gym. Just as my hands grew accustomed to the heavy hilt within my palms, my heart became immune to the abuse I allowed. So that I could be sure, no matter what salt was rubbed into my wounds I felt nothing. Emotions were weakness. They were for those with innocence, with a chance at making something good of themselves upon reaching adulthood.

My innocence was long dead, a fading memory like that of my mother's bloodied lips. Quite honestly, I've asked myself whether such a thing ever existed within one as cold as I. Born to a mother who cared more for a man than her own child, raised with fire and anger and blood. I rarely felt much of anything anymore. Father is about the only thing I can bring myself to give even the slightest of love, and even then it felt forced. It felt wrong. Yet I still managed to care. Somehow.

I wanted out of this sin. As soon as I crossed the threshold to the small abode the dirtied cloth was torn from my skin. Shoes thrown so forcefully upon the hardwood that pieces of the shattered oak collided with the chipping paint. It'd fallen into such disarray when father took up drinking. The stress of mother's death and raising a child he'd never known of made the kindly man crack. I was helpless as I watched his childlike innocence fade with every bottle he downed. I wasn't sad, honestly I felt nothing as the world slowly corrupted him. It was inevitable, one could only hope to avoid such excruciating death as long as possible.

My preoccupied mind allowed for my body to do as it pleased, adorning itself in clothing suited for the ocean's breeze. I'd never much cared for the turquoise water, but I just needed to feel something other than this wretched apathy. For once, I yearned for something. It'd been so long since actual vulnerability had made its way into through a kink in carefully maintained armor. I was helpless as it demanded me out of the house, bare feet tearing against concrete as pure instinct directed me towards a pier.

In this moment and time, I wanted nothing more than to disappear. To start a new and be something other than a whore.

Was it weakness that drove me forwards? Away from the carefully constructed routine that gave me everything I could ever want free of pain and heartache. To escape from my own self-inflicted misery that I knew would return come evening, come the time I decided to not act the fool and return to the safety which was my own sanity.

I didn't want to worry about much of anything at this moment. So I ran far, far away. What drew me to him, I'm not sure. My eyes happened upon him by chance and perhaps recognized the bitter glint that lay within my own blank stare. Why I did it, I don't much know, nor am I worried in the slightest.

Arms folded in front of me as if some sort of shield, bare feet bring me toward him. Smile pasted upon a blank canvas I speak, the tone I take not one of persuasion or seduction. Not even one of forced emotion. A statement, brazen as my actions. "You look miserable."

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