I See What You Don't

I. Weary Traveler

I. Weary Traveler

You could be considered a woman of many talents. An excellent writer by some, and a lovely whore by others. And oddly enough, for you, the two went hand-in-hand. Paper was no easy thing to come by around your quaint little village, and the price of it was going up by the minute. It used to be that a little hand play would earn you a nice stack of it, but now it's merely enough for 5 sheets; the amount it would take to write out a chapter in your novel. This page being the first of many. Your hands are currently still sticky with the remains of your efforts. Each tap of your delicate fingers on the cool metal punch keys are a reminder of the cost of your passion: Writing. Still, you were grateful you did not have to purchase the typewriter to begin with. The machine was a hand-me-down from two generations ago from your mother's side. Many of the keys were scratched, and a few of them were faded from over use. It was fully steel plated and absolutely nothing pretty about it. The time of day was roughly early evening by the time you got back in from the Fall's harsh winds to sit down and write at your desk. Your green crocheted shawl wrapped loosely on top of your shoulders, draping around your backside. You could feel the sting of heat on your cheeks as your temperature was being brought back to an acceptable level from the fire nearby. A simple beige off-white nightgown clung to your thin frame. It was not made from the highest quality linen or silk, but someday it might be.

Rap-tap-tap went your fingers on the keys, writing out your wildest fantasies of finding the love of your life and being whisked away from your miserable affairs in the village. Your days of whoring would be long put behind you. This love would be the greatest tale of all. You would be living in the most pristine golden palace with fancy dressed servants, and endless amounts of wine by your tableside. Fresh fruit would greet you each morning, as well as being wrapped up in your lovers arms. Oh, what a life it would be. You would be royalty. You would be in complete control of your destiny. No one could hurt you, let alone lay a finger on you without your consent.

Unfortunately, these brief moments of happiness would be just as fleeting as the ink drying on the page you were writing on as it neared the bottom. You were running out of room, which meant that in the day to come you would need to be back on the street to owe more favors for blanks. You detested the dirty work required... Considering that you were writing about such innocence in exchange for the utmost filth. With a final click, you reached your last available line. A heavy, long sigh fled from your lungs and groaned out your throat. You sat back on your wooden chair, staring up at your cobwebbed ceiling. Your hands were already shaking from anticipation of the future. You slapped your palms on your thighs, slowly rising from your seat to go to your farm sink to rinse your hands. The water shocked your skin with a passing breeze from your open window. However, the fresh air was a blessing to the burning in your chest. You had not been feeling the best as of late and you often wondered if you were coming down with a cold. The fever was the most of your worries in terms of your symptoms. Your skin was hot to the touch, but you wanted nothing more than to curl up by the fireside and allow your body to roast in the flames. If you hadn't broken every mirror in your home out of shame, then you were certain you would look as bad as you felt.

The fight to reach your bed after drying your hands on a shaggy towel by the stove was more bothersome than the thought of undressing yourself. You couldn't muster the energy to remove your nightdress however dirty it may be. Your torso hit the mattress first, bouncing your head off your down-filled pillow. You were half slumped onto the floor, having to drag yourself on top of your cot by your arms. The shaky chicken legs you were given did not have enough strength to push you upwards. Mucus filled your airways, releasing through with a nasty wet hack. You leaned over from the side and spat into a bucket that was layered with green and red remains of your sickness. A gasp for air was met by stinging in your throat. You knew it was only a matter of time before you would have to force your writing to the side and being bed ridden would take priority. However, you could still type. Which meant that when you wake up in the morning, you would need to set out on your journey to collect more blank sheets. You would need to sell yourself once again. Oh how you dreaded doing such deeds.