WARNING: LITTLE LADY IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL, AND INCLUDES VARIOUS CONTROVERSIAL AND MATURE TOPICS SUCH AS DRUG USE, ALCOHOLISM, ABORTION, AND PROSTITUTION. ALTHOUGH IT IS ENTIRELY YOUR DECISION, IF YOU FIND ANY OF THE LISTED TOPICS OFFENSIVE OR UPSETTING, I ADVISE THAT YOU NOT READ THIS STORY.
The First Chapter: Dorothy Scarlett
My name is Dorothy, and I’m sixteen years old. I live in London with my Great Uncle who was oh-so nice enough to take me in when my parents died seven years ago. He was nice to me at first, but things turned around quickly.
I know what you’re thinking; Dorothy is one of those names that you automatically associate with innocence and kindness. So you would think that I live the glamorous life, practically resembling a fairytale, right?
Wrong. That’s why I go by my middle name, Scarlett. Unless you consider a drunken “legal guardian” using you to make a living as glamorous of course. It’s really not that thrilling, trust me. The “sisters” who are also sent out onto the streets at night, the alcohol never leaving my uncle’s breath, the men who get angry fast, it all gets pretty old.
But to them, I’m not a person, I’m not a teenage girl. I’m nothing more than an object that they’re renting for the night, a piece of meat that they get to control for however many hours they’re paying for.
“Well why don’t you move out? Escape?” You might ask foolishly. Because this isn’t a game, it’s a matter of life or death. If I ran away, where would I go? The police? HA! That’s begging for one of my uncle’s hit men to come knocking on my door.
There’s no escaping when you’re backing into a corner. Especially when you have that unmistakable A imprinted into your head. There’s no escaping with the promise of a blade at your neck if try anything “smart”. Trust me, I’ve got the scar reaching from should blade to shoulder blade on my back to prove it.
Alright, enough with my pity party, let’s get this going.
I woke up on the couch in the swanky in the hotel room, my hair was messy and I needed a shower. Sunlight was shining brightly into the room; I had to raise my hand up to cover my eyes from the golden rays pouring into the room.
There was a large handprint bruised onto my skin above my bicep. “Looks like I’ll be wearing long-sleeves today.” I muttered to myself as I sat up. I couldn’t help but cynically thinking that it was at least considerate of this guy to shell out the extra cash for a nice hotel room.
I stood up to go take a shower and was brought back to reality by my sore muscles. You get used to it over the years though, so I only stood there in pain for a moment or too. I entered the bedroom and luckily he was still passed out drunk on the king sized bed.
I refused to sleep in the same bed as any of these men, it was repulsing to even consider the idea. I crept into the small bathroom and clicked the door shut behind me. The lights were too bright, too harsh. But even that was no excuse for the girl I saw in the mirror.
I didn’t even recognize the person staring back at me through the mirror. Her hair was a dull brown that fell almost to her hips, her gray eyes had lost any amount of light that once was there, and she was covered in multiple bruises and scratches. “Yikes. Definitely a long-sleeves day.” I said dryly as I turned on the water in the shower.
I tugged off my shirt and underwear and tossed them on the floor. The hot water stung as it beat against my bare skin, but I didn’t mind. I’ve been roughed up so much in the past six years that it takes a lot for me to feel pain anymore, any kind of pain. Physical or emotional, I’m practically numb to it all. That’s what this “business” will do to you after so long.
