I had an ordinary childhood, or so I
thought. Had my share of good and bad.
You see, I was never tortured, raped, or
even really misunderstood. Those were
common stories for people in my circle of
friends, but not me. Yet, there was always
a dark cloud over my head.
My father died when I was very young,
maybe eight. It was a car wreck, I was told.
Never really remember the guy, just Barbies
and Legos. My mom died in childbirth. I
was destined to be the death of her. Saw a
picture once, she was pretty too. My
Grandparents received custody of me.
Grampa bit the dust a week before I arrived.
Quite a solemn homecoming. From funeral to
funeral, I felt as though I was on tour.
A tour of black dresses and tears. I guess
that's why it didn't surprise me when my
grandma left the earth. I was sixteen then,
and all alone.
I had successfully collated through all
my kin, and had no where to live. I was
damned if I was going to join a shelter.
The way my life was going, I should have
rotted in the shelter, it would have been
fitting, but it wasn't for me. I moved to
the streets, well, a friend's pad in D.C.
actually. I lived on the streets.
Shoplifting and prostitution paying quite
well for a girl my age. I sold myself to
the creatures of the night for monetary
values. A girl gots to eat, and get buzzed
occasionally. The streets were dark, dirty,
and lonely, and I liked them.
One day I decided I needed more. The guy
I was staying with didn't come home one day.
I didn't know what happened, but the house was
mine. I decided to try the game for real. I
went out and got a pimp. It was quite easy,
didn't even take an hour. Everyone (including
the pimp!) thought I was crazy! Imagine
wanting a pimp. Hey, I thought, it would bring
more business and more money. It did-too much
"business" and just a little more money. I
grew to hate Sly, my pimp, as all the girls do.
He takes your money and beats you up. If you
didn't know better, you call it a mugging, he
called it business. I remember one day wishing
he was dead. He died. Right in the middle of
Pennsylvania Street. Heart attack, before a
pickup finished the job.
The men in my life (the johns) seemed to
be thinning out. I was hired at this nice
"escort" service, high clientele. But clients
started returning less and less. They weren't
requesting other girls, they just weren't
returning. I was afraid of HIV. So I went to
a gynecologist. He assured me it was negative.
While in the stirrups, he also took it upon
himself to tell me my labia was the most perfect
specimen he had ever seen in his career. I
don't know if he was serious, and I wasn't
flattered, but I fucked him anyway. It took
care of the bill. Men are such simple,
impulseful animals. Funny story-about a week
later I read he was killed. A bombing by
anti-abortionists. Well, maybe not a funny
story.
I did form a few bonds with the other
'working girls' at first. But I always found
myself overcome with grief too often when one
wouldn't return to her corner. These women
didn't have the luxury of funerals, they were
just taken away
You heard stories of all kinds of terrors
on the streets, of what people could do. It's
a sick world, after all. But I don't know the
meaning of life, which brought me to St.
Gabriana's earlier this evening."
I remember walking in the rain, I had
nothing to do, no where to go. Stopped for a
couple of drinks at a little bar called Damon's.
Damon was a good man, and an even better
bartender. His deal is he would tell you a
joke while he'd pour you a drink. I could sit
and listen to him for hours, and I did. I drank
there for about four hours, all through happy
hour, then two for the road, or was it three?
Anyways, it was then that I saw the church across
the street. I had seen it every day, but this day
it seemed different. Instead of being a place I
walk past often, it became a place I could go to.
Maybe it was the alcohol, but I wondered if maybe
it held some answers to my life. It did, and I'm
not prepared for what they are.
I remember opening the large wet, wooden door
like the opening of a casket. I even laughed when
it made the squeak that I knew it would like a bad
haunted house movie. I remember going in. The air
had a scent, or maybe a taste, which I could not
define. It was dimly lit, though I don't know how.
It seemed as though it was deserted since the last
coming of Christ.
Then I saw the confession booth in the corner
like a weird, wooden puzzle box. I never really
went to any church as a child, and never "decided"
on any religion. The closest I ever came was
praying to god that I would make it home or such.
The idea of a confession in this murky, drunken
night started to make some kind of cosmic sense,
or something. So I strutted over to the box.
I had to giggle at the thought that if God was
going to listen, he may need to take a break from
confessions to recuperate after this one. I sat
down on the cold wood bench, and closed the door.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned..."
***END OF PART THREE***