Her lips moved in a way that would only be distinguished as speech to a very select few. Tears flowed down her face meeting and dripping off her chin with no attempt to either stop their flow or to wipe them from her face. Fingers, narrow, well manicured and ending in perfectly red polish manipulated the old rosary with lightning speed. Her thumb pressed the bead up every twenty or twenty five seconds, as she pushed she took a deep breath and the process began again.
She was dressed in a way that wouldn't make the first person who passed her think of a devout Catholic. Her dress, if it could be called that, was cut up to nearly her ass and when she took those deep breaths, her bosom pressed against the thin material and nipples, hard like icicles, strained not to rip the fabric. Her hair was long, down to her waist long. A deep brown that was nearly black and perfectly straight. No style to it at all, it hung like a great ebony curtain down her back and covered the majority of the powder blue dress she barely wore.
Her makeup had been a sight to see a few hours ago, now it looked like she had gone a dozen rounds with a boxer in a prize fight and lost, badly. Her eyes were swollen from the crying and the mascara and eye shadow, or what remained at least, ran in the same streams that her tears had formed in lines down her very elegant face.
She was on a floor composed of solid oak, not the slats you see in the high end houses here and there, no, it was a single piece of oak that was about fifteen feet wide and maybe three times that long. The only things on the wall were candle holders, each of them holding a candle of a different color. Purple and reds, greens and blues, black, white and pink. Hundreds of them in various states of decay ran the walls on both sides of her until they reached the small door on the other end of the room from where she was now.
In front of her was an altar, a large unadorned cross stood in front of her. It was at least nine feet tall and was of the Celtic style. Infinite loops wrapped around one another until the eyes could no longer tell if they were following the same line or a different one entirely. It appeared to be solid steel; sheen was on it as if it were well oiled and looked after. There was nothing else in the room save that. The candles, the cross, and the woman on her knees in front of it.
Just as it should be.
Deborah stood in the light of the streetlight over her head and lit her cigarette. Her fingers still shook and her face was completely obfuscated by the wide brimmed hat she wore. She sniffed a few times to get the rest of the moisture out of her nose and eyes. The blisters on her fingers were wide and full of the serum that would soon need to be removed. She took a long pull of the smoke and flicked it into the bushes on the side of the house and made her way down the front steps of the house.
She was going to hail a cab, but at this time of night she knew she could get business if she walked, so she took the longer and twisting way down the block. She removed the hat and tossed it away, the damn thing was horrendous as it was. She shook her head to get her hair to straighten down her back and started that walk that since the beginning of time meant that she was offering herself to the highest bidder.
Her long legs were bare and pale in the moonlight above. Her hair, so dark, framed a face that was now clear of the mess it had on it just a few moments before, not a trace of tears remained and her makeup was absolutely perfect in every detail, up to and including the fake beauty mark on her right cheek that seemed to attract certain people.
Her breasts, too large for her petite frame jutted out from her high and firm on her chest, the nipples large and proud advertised that she was excited to anyone who wanted to take a look close enough. The décolletage was obscene, nearly spilling her from the narrow and sheer fabric of the powder blue dress.
