Wearing The Color Red

Chapter 1: Cracks

I always look at my ceiling while I lay in bed, the luminous stars that stick to my ceiling only glow during the night, yet the white hostile background always grabs my attention more, the continuous cracks throughout the ceiling always creates a daunting feeling within myself.

Whenever I look at this ceiling I always compare myself to these stars. These stars remind me to begin my future in New York, the big apple. The bright lights of the city and fast paced scenery has always been a dream to see, to live. I can see myself now, capturing my surroundings through the lenses of my Nikon DF, oh how I pray one day I can afford a Nikon Z6.

Photography has always been a passion of mine, I imagine being able to picture Times Square, the vibrant colour of billboard's that shine on my face, while energetic strangers dash to their destinations. The buildings piercing through the sky, separating the clouds, a silver platform of beauty standing tall.

My grades at school are to perfection, I thrive throughout each of my classes to make sure that my predicted pass grades are achieved, so I can escape this god awful town. While I picture this fantasy all I can see is the cracks of my ceiling, the life that I'm currently living, affecting the life I dream to have.

The constant suffocation of caring for my father is neglecting my own dreams by taking care of the only man that has showed me the slightest affection of love during my life. I did not have much, not that I always dwell on my mother leaving while I was two years old, but the constant thought of having a motherly role in my life would have allowed me to be more confident, preventing me from the torment of my high school life and the lack of friendships I can obtain.

My up-bringing has definitely been a struggle, not to say that it has been the worst, but it could have been different. I always dreamed of having a life that consisted of a supporting family that thrived with me, carrying the weight of my dreams and goals with me.

My father does not have any interest in my career like a normal father should. His only interests consists of going to the bar, drinking, and working throughout the day to then spend his money feeding his addiction. The only respect I have towards the man is that he still contributes towards paying the utility bills for the house so I at least have a roof over my head, I presume he does it just for his benefit of having a place to live while riding off his boozed up nights.

I don't believe I'm ever taken into consideration with my father. Not that I'm troubled by my fathers actions anymore, I have quickly been able to adapt to my current lifestyle, by building a brick wall around myself for the past several years.

I'm not a broken person. People would assume I would be but I'm not. I'm persistent. Persistent to obtain my grades at school, to block out all the crude names and actions thrown my way, to finally stand in Times Square taking in my new surroundings, my new home.

The past 7 months have been critical for me to guarantee my future in New York, concentrating consistently on my school work while finically saving as much money as I can to support myself. With no college savings or helpful loans from my father, I have had to earn my money using the only thing that I can provide, my body. Yes, that's right. I'm a sex worker.

Prostitute I believe is the correct wording but both job titles perform the same roles, engaging in sexual activity with someone for payment. I never considered this to be my only solution when looking for payed work, I applied for every job role in my town to only be let down constantly. I believe that when they saw last name "Berry" they instantly recognised the family name due to my father. There was already one "Berry" in town causing havoc, they didn't need a second.

Becoming desperate I met a man named DR who showed me the secret life of the sex industry. Money was good, really good so I began my job. The first time I engaged with a client my skin crawled with disgust, I felt physically and mentally distraught, I was repulsed with myself, to have gone down this dark path, neglecting myself in such a way. But I had to adapt, my dream of New York is within arm's reach and nothing is going to stop me from achieving that, even myself.

Client's come and go while I remain numb. I may have betrayed my body but I wasn't going to ruin my future.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a loud crash escaping from the lounge that echoes into my room. Deja vu allows me to move my legs across the bed and exit the room. I tread slowly across the hallway to be greeted by the sight of my intoxicated father, laying across the sofa uncomfortably while the remains of a broken lamp scatters across the floor, not to my surprise this would be the tenth lamp I have had too replace this year.

***

I sit in front of my large standing mirror while finishing the last of my make-up by retrieving my mascara and placing a small coat onto my lashes, I don't like to wear much make-up because of the time and effort spent on the activity. I like to enjoy the small amount of sleep I currently have without the constant pressure off getting myself up earlier to make myself look sufficient.

I change myself into my snug hoodie and leggings, and tie up my converses, I put my brunette hair up into a ponytail while pulling out strands of hair to flow down my face. I observe myself in the mirror that leans against my magnolia walls.

Satisfied with my ordinary appearance I place my backpack straps on each shoulder and close my bedroom door behind me, as I walk towards the lounge to collect my belongings for school. I look towards the drunk, sleeping man laying across the couch loudly snoring away.

I stare at my brewed-up father, contemplating how I was put into this messed up situation. I always wonder if it was myself, if I, at a young age caused my family to fall apart, If I am the one to blame for my fathers constant drinking. I have never asked my father personally about what happened, only because of his reaction and my own, and well.. communication is not a very strong point within our relationship.

Maybe I am the fault of his drinking? What If I am the reason my mother left? The lack of evidence always denied my allegations of myself, but a small side to myself always asks what if? My father could of always been a drunk throughout my younger days, but my childhood memories can never seem to be found.

My eyes travel towards the smashed lamp that lays broken and lifeless on the floor. Sharp edges of glass scatter on the ground, circling the couch that my father lays upon.

The bright light of the arising sun blares through the window, reflecting upon the glass creating a burst of shapes and colors that illuminate on the ceilings and walls. The sight is gorgeous to look at, but the source of this beauty can be dangerous if not handled with caution.