Memoirs of Candy (Tooru Oikawa)

1

Octobre 1973

Medellin, Colombia

I can remember vividly when my own mother threw the most vulgar dress towards me and that was the last time I had seen the nauseating expression on her revolting face before she kicked me to the streets, wearing nothing but that dreadful revealing cheaplooking dress that barely procured protection to my skin from the cold freezing weather of Meddelin in the dark nights of Octobre...and the hungry perveted looks I was receiving.

They made my skin crawl in pure disgust and mostly fear. I was scared and hungry, I had nothing on me and no one by my side but my internal incessant prayers for a higher force to save me. I knew I didn't deserve salvation, I the daughter of a drug dealer and...a hooker.

In all of the 23 years I'd lived so far, I did nothing to be mentioned, I had been nothing but a burden to my parents and they had made sure to remind me of it every single day.

I had lost hope in humans, if the person that birthed me threw me to sell my flesh to the cold-hearted creatures that lurk in the darkness, hiding in the street corners of Medellin, watching me closely with cold expressionless eyes, robbing me of the last bit of innocence I had left in the ruined misguided soul that I was, I did not know what to expect from others so I had to pray, grasping at the last string of faith that kept me alive, clinging to it with all that I can give.

The spiritual relief that believing in a God grants some peace within people and I needed that relief. I envied whoever was so sure that there is indeed a creator, a higher force in control of what's happening in this vile merciless world, an afterlife where they could meet their loved ones and start over if they haven't led the life they had wanted in the few trivial years they spent on earth.

I didn't believe in God...until that day.

I was leaning against some random wall with grafitties, swear sentences in spanish filled most of it. It was harsh and humid but it was the only thing I could lean on as I waited for a possible client, someone decent enough so I wouldn't end up vommiting myself.

I was doing exactly what my mother had told me, and not because she asked me to, I simply needed a strangers' body to collide with mine and provide a momentarily feeling of warmth. Although their agressive side usually took over...they stared at me with hunger, they bit my skin ferociously and I would start to feel cold again under their harsh gaze and judgement.

They threw whatever they had in their pockets and did not spare me a single glance before their departure. I'd stare with disgust at the amount of money they had left on the ground. Sometimes it was enough, sometimes it wasn't and when it wasn't, I found myself wondering,

Was it worth the trouble?

It was quiet, but not too quiet. Some kids played football with a rusty flat Coca-Cola can, the sound of it scraping against the ground as it flew from on foot to another was unbearable. They cheered happily, innocently, unaware of the filth that surrounds them and I was jealous.

I envied them so much.

Then there was some random homeless drunkard, finding refuge under a large dirty box. I couldn't see his face but I could hear his voice, as he hummed an unknown tune. It was rough and most of it came out sluggish but I didn't care, I loved how the hurt in his voice talked on my behalf.

I could feel his eyes on me, he wanted me, he'd always wanted me but he couldn't afford me, I was far from his reach and he could barely afford to feed himself, let alone spend a few minutes with me. Thus he was contented with staring at me, allowing his mind to fantasize about something he couldn't have and I let him be, for I pitied him so much.