"Sweetheart, pleasure comes in so many forms," he murmurs, moving his nose along my jawline. "Let me show you that even pain can be pleasurable." He snakes his arm around my waist. His breath tingles my ear as he whispers in a husky voice, "Be mine...
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I draw the red lipstick over my lips one more time, coating it with color. The school couldn't end sooner today. I'm already itching for the sense of freedom getting drunk provides.
My eyes skim my reflection in the mirror. I've covered the bruises well enough. Concealer is one of man's best creations. I put aside my makeup bag and pull up the neckline of my crop top.
With long strides, I return to my room and wear my oversized hoodie. I keep my hair open and my face hidden behind it. In a quick motion, I sling my rucksack over a shoulder and tiptoe out of the house.
Once outside, in hurried steps, I walk in the shadows. It always provides a sense of security.
The sky is dark, and the moon is nowhere to be seen. Thick layers of cloud are scattered above.
I fasten my pace and soon spot the neon lights of the bar I frequent.
For a moment, I slow down. My stomach churns with disgust and humiliation. Even after months of doing this embarrassing thing, it still hasn't lost its daunting effect.
A night of peaceful sleep, without the fear of having to face my so-called father, is what my body is worth.
I shake my head.
No, I'm too far gone. These types of things don't affect me. They shouldn't.
My soul is forever scarred and ruined, etched with humiliation.
A victim of the unfairness in this world.
Maybe that's what I deserve?
I cross the road.
Wonder how the alcohol addicts perceive this sign? Do they get excited when they see their regular bar?
As I near it, I realize it's more crowded than usual.
Friday night. I recall with distaste.
The bouncer gives me an overall look. I fiddle the zipper of my hoodie before inhaling sharply and standing taller, pushing my shoulders back to make my boobs stand out better. The makeup helps me appear older.
While watching my face, he nods with recognition.
I visit here more than I'd like to admit. Probably more than an addict.
As I step inside, alcohol mixed with sweat's scent assaults my nostrils.
The music is louder than usual; it vibrates on every surface, on my skin, and it reverberates in my skull.
I push my way through the absurdly moving bodies. With an effort, I reach the other side of the bar.
Tonight shouldn't be hard to find a bed. I hope.
I settle on a stool, dropping my backpack between my legs. With an elbow on the counter, I press my free hand's index and middle fingers together and wave it.
