At the tender age of 19 she had already seen the world and everything it had to offer.
She was tall, a slender, shapely young woman, yet she still wore six inch heels. The same ones everyday, high, and red.
To everyone else she appeared cryptic, enigmatic, she spoke with grace, and walked with confidence, but if you could look past it you'd see a young girl miserable, confused, and trapped in the life a wannabe starlet.
As she zipped up her skin tight black dress, gently maneuvering carefully around the bruises covering her arms and neck, a single tear fell from her fair eyes.
She grew up an innocent, sheltered girl. The daughter of preacher, and a librarian. Her father was a righteous man, fluent in the word of God, and the type of person that wouldn't hesitate to let someone in his home if they needed a place to stay, but sadly, he was often taken advantage of because of his kindness. People beat him, stole from him, did all different kinds of things to him. One of her most prominent memories was her father giving a church sermon with a black eye. She never understood how so many bad things could happen to a man of God. Growing up watching him she decided she wouldn't let herself be that naive.
Her mother, on the other hand, was the woman she had promised herself she would never be, over-worked, stressed, neurotic, crows feet by the age of 34, horribly offended by noise, and finding joy only in books, God, and knitting. She had always found her mother, sickening, and old. There was no happiness in her mother's smile, nor passion in her love life. Her mother was basically a walking corpse.
She would not let her self become old like her mother had. Even if it meant dying young. So when she turned 18 she packed her bags, and left the only safe life she ever lived.
She slept in til 12 each morning, her job being selling goods, and products of her specific craft on street corners in the dead of night. The only thing she ever thought she was good for, but she made decent money, enough to afford a small broken down apartment, and expensive clothing from the most dignified designers in the fashion industry.
She looked at herself in the mirror, horribly apprehensive as she carefully applied bright red lipstick unto her full, perfectly shaped, lips. Looks meant everything. She had spent her entire life bouncing back and forth from narcissistic to insecure, no balance, no inbetween. One moment she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world, men adored her, they went out of their way to please her, they bought her whatever she wanted, and they'd beg or pay just for her to lie with them in bed. The next, she felt ugly, heartless, inadequate, like Frankensteins' Monster, sewed together crudely, and brought to life by a mad man for no particular reason, to live without a purpose but existing.
Her heart had grown callused, and hard from constantly being hurt. She no longer felt. Kisses were just kisses, sex was just sex, and love was just a word you used to convince men to buy you things.
She looked her self over again, this time blowing a kiss at her reflection, as she straightened her dress out, and walked away.
She had an appointment to get to.
