Paying For Death

        One last moan and the thirty year old, disgusting, mildly overweight, low-life loser rolls off me, as I unwrap my legs and arms from his waist. I stare at the white ceiling and it reminds me of my life: dull, bleak, lacking of color. The man lying beside me is breathing raggedly and I can feel his eyes re-fucking me, taking in my perfect curvy and toned naked frame with his sick molesting eyes. I refuse to make eye contact with him, because I prefer to pretend that as long as I can't see him, he isn't there. This tactic works for a while, and allows me to temporarily escape the sins I commit, however like always such fortune disappears. This time my bliss is interrupted when I sense his movements; he's closing the already too small of a gap between us and he trails his scratchy fingertips along the soft sensitive flesh of my breast, and goose bumps involuntarily form along my porcelain skin.

        "I have two questions, baby," he whispers while his lips brush along my shoulder, he kisses it every so often. I try to ignore the icky sensation. "one, how was that for you?" He's looking for praise, wanting me to tell him he's a God in bed, a male Aphrodite, and that I just had a mind blowing hour that no other being could give me. They all expect this answer, and lucky for them I'm paid not just to sleep with them but to lie too, regardless of how fraudulent it sounds. "Two, how much will that great time cost me?" 

        I'm still not looking at him. A familiar reaction occurs inside of me, and I remember it as a sense of dirtiness; the same feeling I get whenever a guest asks me these same questions. I respond robotically, automatically, the same response I give every individual. "Satisfactory, but it was for your pleasure, not mine. Three hundred fifty dollars please." My voice comes out strong, even though I am feeble and lack energy. 

        He laughs; it's a stomach churning sound. Nausea waves over me when I hear it, a sickness that never really goes away in my line of business. "Steep, but worth it." He kisses my delicate flushed cheek with his cracked, sticky, dehydrated lips. While sitting up on the edge of the stained motel spring bed, which creaks loudly in protest at the time that he moves, he reaches down for his chocolate colored trousers (who the hell wears brown trousers) and grabs his black clearly pleather wallet, taking out the money in cash and placing it on the bedside table. He stands and heads toward the bathroom. He flicks on the light and I smirk. The dingy pathetic excuse for a light barely illuminating the cramped space. It's a dim, unhappy, fluorescent; much like me: gloomy and depressing. I lean on my forearms and crunch half way, inspecting my mature body, and reflect on of all the pigs whom have touched it, and the amount of money it's broughten me.  

        I trace my scars on my thighs and remember why they were put there, remember how I became a prostitute, momentarily re-live my eating disorder. My acquainted emotions pour into my vessels through past experiences I can predict the future. My rationality eludes me and I am left with the pain of my background and present as horrid motivators. The manipulations and bruises of my traumatic life happenings seem fresh, like they just recently materialized. The torment forces an irritation against my rind and tears develop in the corner of my eyes. I recognize this process, yet am powerless to prevent the occurance. Secretly, I lack all desire to do so. 

        Instead of stopping the inevitable, I attain the little plastic ziploc pouch lying on the grey carpet. It's filled with encouragement. I pick it up, and work the substance within between my fingers, playing with it lovingly. I smile, and pour its contents onto the nightstand. I cut the powder into a beautifully perfect line and lean forward, snorting the cocaine and inhaling it's intoxicating gift. I feel the high almost immediately, and my body relieves tension but at the same time constructs it. It gives me the energy, the strength, the kick I need to subdue the overly large amount of agony I have inside me the best way possible. I glance over my shoulder towards the washroom and listen to the running water of the shower. A voice in my mind whispers evil, sadistic inspiration. It's a furiously, saddened voice that rings with monstrous skill. 

        Grab the needle, Maria... I check out my purse and a sinfully sly look appears across my face. I searcb inside and retrieve the bleach filled syringe.

        You know what to do now, to get rid of such sorrow. 

        It's right. I am aware of what I have to do; of what I want to do. The high heightens my senses and my body tingles. I grip the needle and let my feet lead me towards bathroom. The gross motel room now seems bright and lit. I stand in the doorway, watching the animal in the shower wash himself of the deed of sleeping with an underage hooker. 

        I saunter towards the bathtub and my firm hand makes a fist around the yellowish white plastic curtain. I pull it back enough to peer inside, examining the man, noticing every detail about his physique. I note every freckle, dark spot, scar, fat roll, taking in every grotesque feature. While stepping into the shower, he turns his head slightly and I see a smile play along his lips. His eyes have an ill gleam within them.

        "Well, hello babygirl" He attempts to sound seductive, failing miserably. I smile back, which to him seems sexy, but the voice sees the real intention behind such politeness. Excitement motivates my blood pressure to rise because soon I'll feel better. Alleviation shall come. 

        Do it now... It tells me. Of course, like every time it speaks, I obey with no questions asked. My hand reaches out and the tips of my gentle falsly affectionate  fingers brush along his spine 'sensually'. I see him shiver. My lips kiss along his shoulder blade as I press myself against his slick back, feeling the little beads of water splash me. I whisper cruelly "Actually, goodbye."

        "Wha-" the voice sounds confused, but is cut off short with a surprising grunt as I stab the syringe into his thick broad neck. I inject the bleach quickly and step away, watching the poisonous toxin do its job. The man convulses in severe discomfort as the chlorine burns his veins. He grabs at his skin, moaning, trying to scratch away the burning sensation; wanting the agony to retire, the way mine now temporarily has. He collapses to his knees, gasping, almost crying. I see his muscles flex and his face strain. I clamp my damn hand over his cringing mouth as he screams out. I imagine his life flashing before his eyes and hope they're all depressing reminders of all he'll miss. He gropes his chest while I watch the end approach. The bleach finally reaches his heart, and with one last moan, one last cry of pain, he's gone; landing with a thud, smacking his head off the edge of the tub as he does so. The lifeless form lies beneath me, much like it was when he was alive. I have no expression, but I feel sane again: in control. The voice is gone for now, but it will return.

                                                                * * *

        It's dark outside, eerie, but I'm not scared of other devils in disguise. I walk along the highway, my heels clacking along the road. I see headlights up ahead and I instinctively start swaying my hips with each step I take. The truck drives by and I wink at the driver; of course as always the truck does an immediate U-turn. I stand, my hand on my hip as I keep it popped to the side, my knee bent. I am for temptation. The vehicle pulls up in front of me and the window rolls down. I see the attractive guy lick his lips and look me over, and leaning against the window, I bat my eye lashes and show my cleavage.

        "How about a ride?" I wink again, luring in the pathetic animal. He takes the bait and unlocks the door.

        I get in, settling myself on the warmed leather seat. Right away his hand ends up on my thigh. My eyes sparkle while I glance at him from under my lashes, from the corner of my eye. An amusing grin appears on my beautiful glossy lips. The process starts over.