Prologue
She is nineteen years old, with the body of a fifteen year old girl, and the eyes of a ninety year old holocaust victim. Her lips are a thin line of pink and crimson, and when they are not, they are parted in unspoken protests, revealing to everyone what happens when those protests are made audible. Her hair is a mess of knotted brown and dirty blonde strands, and her skin is a surprising contrast with its tan almost olive color, and amazingly the bruises are a purple contrast to the color, like dyed pearls littered under the skin. Her clothes are torn, and look as old as they are. She doesn't have any money to buy new ones. All the money goes to her 'boyfriend'.
Making no attempt to hide the weariness of her body, she slumps against a wall, weariness decorating the stunning green of her eyes. She closes them slowly, inhales, then opens them again, as if preparing herself to face the brutality of another night on the block. She had been out there for a week now as 'punishment' for not taking a job. Only the respectful girls worked inside, the rest: outside like the dogs they acted like.
But anyone passing by, even with a sideways glance, could see that she didn't belong with the others. She didn't belong with any of them. The other woman strutted their stuff with seven inch platform heels and shirts that they took the liberty of turning into dresses. Hair that wasn't theirs and nails that could be used as weapons. Unlike her their skin was flawless, their makeup perfectly masking the ugliness that came out when they opened their mouths. Their legs showed no bruises and their eyes showed no weariness.
They were made for this work, their bodies practically bred for the abuse they endured. It was more than obvious that she wasn't.
He had been watching her for almost three nights now. Watching her do the same ritual of coming to the alley wall, and preparing herself for another night of abuse. Watching her get into random men's cars, and drive to the alley that she centered herself in. She would disappear from the rear window, resurfacing a matter of minutes later and exiting the car with a wad of cash in her shaking hands. She would wait till they drove away. And then she would vomit. Each night she would vomit less, and he deduced that she was being fed less.
Business was slow tonight, he could tell because there had already been three fights between women. One side of the block was getting more business than the other, but everyone was assigned their separate work stations. There was no crossing over. The fights had been broken up swiftly by Damien, who ended the bickering with a punch in the face or a chokehold to the offending woman.
"Shut the hell up," he had said. "Or you can go the fuck home, and get a fuck ass job at McDonalds." The women had shut up. As if working at McDonalds was way worse than selling your body to the highest bidder. Periodically after that he came out to make sure there were no more fights. And there hadn't been. The majority of the woman had ventured passed their block, to more residential streets, which was illegal, but no one seemed to care. As long as Damien got his money, he didn't care where they went.
