I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
"Hey, you girl!"
A stranger, squinty eyed, spits at her as she passes. A group of men look up from their pockets, eying her like a piece of meat.
"Finally meet your Armageddon, huh?"
"A pretty penny it'd cost ya for than 'un!"
"She wasted me, stole all I earn'd!"
Her face shows no rage, no pain, no humiliation, only the challenging smirk plastered on, her mask of steel. She couldn't care less about her condition. It wouldn't matter anyways.
"Shut up you bastards!" She retorts, sneering with the battered remnants of a fading strength.
"Don't ya back talk me girl! You're nothing but a common whore!"
She curses at him, words flowing freely from between cracked lips. Once a beauty, by common standards, her life had turned once her father sold her.
"Soraya, huh?" somebody jeers. "What good'll that purty name do ya now huh?"
As she is pushed forwards, her scanty dress flies upwards, eliciting whistles from the growing crowd. It wouldn't matter in the end. She bares her teeth theatrically at the offenders, hearing them whoop and yell.
Nothing would.
