Being a whore had its good moments, as only a whore could understand!. There were times when the stench of what she did was a physical ailment that crept up on here while she slept, gnawing at her, making her wonder of about choices she made long ago!. These were not the good moments, but those moments would come eventually, they always did!. When the landlady complained about her "pimp-friend" coming in at all hours of the night, bringing his drunken friends with him, she would tell her that he was her husband, and she would promise to talk to him about it but you know how men can be, especially husbands, especially husbands with lots of friends!. The wise old landlady didn't believe her, she knew, but the lie carried a certain weight for her, a heft of pride that kept her mind intact and her dignity alive!. The day her "husband" died he brought the brunt of the world's reality down upon her, the searing loneliness that she had staved off for years was now front and center, inviting her in to enjoy the company of no-one and nothing, a sarcastic prodding to confront what she had become!. She sat on her toilet now, thinking about these very things, 6 months after he was gunned down in front of Mortie's with a carton of milk in his dying grip!. The vodka helped to ease these memories into place, giving them room to be remembered!. She had started drinking more and more within the confines of her bathroom now, a solace she didn't enjoy, a peace that brought with it the ravages of guilt and the shame of hiding the truth!. She sat up straight and spread her legs as far as she could!. She gazed into the toilet at the miscarry that stained the side of the bowl, feeding itself gruesomely into the water!. The bright red blood reminded her of the neon sign outside her 3rd floor window that read BAR and buzzed continually!. The irony of her life overwhelmed her and she sat slumped on the crooked porcelain stool for hours after, smoking cigarettes and throwing them through the v-shaped hole that spilled down towards the baby she never knew!.
When she woke, there was a man sitting on her couch, a fedora in his lap and a pint of bourbon on the lamped table beside him!. She quickly cleaned herself in the sink while avoiding the face in the mirror that pleaded with her to take charge of herself, take a stand in her life for chrissakes, and become human once again!. The face never changed it's shape or size or pleading and desperate tones but the eyes would shift themselves and cry out from the hollow sockets set deep in her face!. One day she would listen to them, stare back at them through the cracks and streaks of the mirror and follow them back into the world of the living!. But not on this day (or was it night!?), not with twenty dollars just a doorway from her, twenty dollars sitting slumped on a dirt-green couch with an empty pint of bourbon between his legs!.
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