The door closed tightly and the lock snapped into place. The curtain swayed in the silence and the room settled on the scene. There was a bed, a sink, a mirror, a table, some underwear and a dead woman. She was more than nude; she was naked, open and removed from her self and the rest of the room avoided her gaze. She was lone in the room and suddenly alone in her existence. The room had seen this hundreds of times before, and will see it hundreds of times whence and waited for her to forget.
A second person moved in the room. This person stood up from the bed and stretched out. The second person was again a woman, and again nude, but there was something different about this person that got up from off the bed, a different air about her that contrasted perfectly with the body lying, greying, on the bed clothes. This person looked at the mirror and staring back at her was a stranger. Under the shimmer of her glazed eyes and the make-up covered face there was someone she used to recognise, someone that a long time ago had a very different path planned for her… but she could barely make out that person. It was like trying to hear an echo in a hallway, discernable and vague and almost understandable, but there was no hope of reconciling that person.
She looked back at the bed and the naked person lying there, prone, still – the skin glistening slightly with a film of sex. The dark eyes that looked back at her saw nothing but the past, and reflected in them the future she would never have. Something had been broken and a life had been taken – there’d been no blood, but there was a wound, one that wouldn’t be healed or able to be bandaged. It was one that would have to worn without concealment, at least in the foreseeable future.
The body on the bed was fading. It was darker and greyer with each passing moment, like sand slipping away through her fingers. Memories were growing distant and the fading of the body was inevitable – in a few minutes that life would be gone forever and the future was standing streaming at her. She knew what to do. Turning away from the body, to help forget what she had done, she went to the sink. Cold water was splashed upon her face in a violent motion. She splashed water upon her breasts, her nipples hardening from the chill. She looked at the bed, in the mirror, and caught her self gasping – the body was even vaguer than before. It was only a matter of time.
She then walked to the back of the room where there was a shower. The room looked expectantly at the dead body on the bed, the life that had been left behind. The small room quietly shook its head and glanced at the door. The glass door that only opened from the inside was covered by a pink and red curtain. The curtain had more meaning that the room and its occupants could ever know, and it knew of all sordid comings and goings it had experienced. Outside there was a street, and in this street there were hundreds of other curtains, all concealing a world of death and sex and money. The body on the bed faded further, not but a whisper of memory on the strewn sheets.
The woman returned to the room, drying her self off with a towel. She then placed her underwear back on silently and efficiently, professionally. She then picked up the mobile phone that was on the side of the sink – 8 missed calls. Those missed calls were for a person that no longer lived. A moment of regret crept in, and she look again at the stranger in the mirror. There looking back was someone that she had become. In the mirror, too, there was an empty bed. The bed, which had been occupied by a life that had ended, was suddenly clear and free – her conscience was not. That would take much longer but the transformation was almost complete. Placing the phone back on the dresser top, she started to turn over in her head the route that had taken her here, to this very moment, to this realisation that this was to be her life. It was and had been the only way out, she realised. It wasn’t what her father would want, or her boyfriend, and disobediently not her friends, but needs must. What she hadn’t realised that this first time would kill something inside her, make her a new person and it would be the other way round; she wouldn’t be a real person playing the part of a prostitute, but she was a prostitute that would be playing the part of real life.
Adjusting her bra in the mirror, fixing her panties and puckering her lips, she looked at her body. It was the last thing she had to give, and the only thing that anyone had ever wanted. Except him… he had always wanted more than her sexually, and that’s why he was The One. He didn’t know, he couldn’t know. He was the full stop and the future, he was the rescue that she needed and the way out of this, and without him she wouldn’t have entertained the idea of this route. He knew what he meant to her and provided as such, but looking at her body in the dark glow of the lamp, the sounds of the outside finally reaching the room, she knew that everything had changed. The bed was empty – the person that had laid down, tentatively, was gone.
Suddenly, it was a blood lust that gripped her – which John had just taken the last piece of her life from her, and she was left with nothing and the anger bubbled inside her. The cash, several hundred Euros, was a small price to have been paid for her soul and in that instant she decided that there was no other choice. No other way for her to go. She walked to the door, and parted the curtain. The street was awash with the light of the night and her breasts and thighs were exposed, the game afoot again. And she would kill her next customer as her last had killed her. In the night of the city she had came to for a future, there were people casting aside everything their past had built, and she was one of the fallen.