I’m not really sure how I found myself here. In this specific place, I mean. I look around and all I see is white. White walls—is it concrete? Or brick? How could I possibly belong here? One touch from me and that perfect white bleach is filthy. And yet here I am, surrounded. At least the bench isn’t white, otherwise I’d have to figure out how to float above it. Perhaps this is my punishment. Surrounded by perfection, being constantly reminded of my imperfection. Wow, what a stark contrast. I messed things up. I don’t actually know how it went bad. Or when. But suddenly I find myself in this place.
He told me I was beautiful and perfect, so I said yes to the job. It was so nice to hear those words after my family let me go. Or made me go. It was an accident! It was all an accident. I kept telling them. The baby and then the fall. I broke their hearts twice I suppose. My mother had just long enough to get over me getting pregnant at 15 and actually look forward to having a grand baby to raise as her child. But then I fell. Rolled down the stairs at home actually. Even rushing to the hospital, we ran out of time to save the baby. It was too small, too weak to bounce back. They turned me out but I guess I don’t blame them. How could they want me after all of that? I didn’t want me either, but how do you separate yourself from, well, you? You don’t. You just find something to distract. Waiting for the bus one night, I met who I thought could help me forget. He offered me a place to sleep. I must’ve looked terrible not having showered for a week. So I went.
It started fine. I got used to the rhythm and started having repeat customers so I kind of made friends with them, though they were just there for what their money could get them. The pain was welcome at first, though it all stopped hurting after a little while. At first it was therapeutic and was a nice distraction. Nothing like violence to numb the shame of being solely responsible for breaking the hearts of everyone who love me. On top of killing a living thing. Then I started seeing it for what it was. The risk of giving the intimate parts of myself to men who cared nothing for my body. Or that it was connected to me. I’ve survived for six months disconnecting myself from what is happening.
I can’t leave, I would go back to sleeping under benches. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure he would find me and make me come back. It’s not all that bad, really. I will get out someday. Hopefully, I’ll get another shot at life when I do. Right now, though, I’m fine. I don’t need anybody to love me or care for me. I’ve got it. Right? I’ve got it.
**Photo from Pexels.**
**Photo from Pexels.**
