Holding On

It was only a routine. At least that was what it had become. Everyday she would wake, shower and dress. It was hard the first few weeks. She would cry herself to sleep after each episode. But as time passed, she had discovered there wasn’t a time for tears. She began to see it as a job. They had given her a room after her first month. She was lucky according to the other girls. They usually kept three or four girls in one room. The space was tiny and empty save for the narrow bed by the side and a mirror hung loosely on the wall. The peeling paint and the open ceiling were the only decorations. She never allowed herself to think about it. She didn’t own anything anyway. They provided a dress for her each day. Time after time, halfway through getting dressed, she would pause and think about choking herself to death with the clothes, or making a rope with it. The decaying woods of the ceiling would serve as a perfect executioner. She had stared hard at the tiny razor blade in her hands while she was shaving the other day, imagining how swift and dull the pain would be. But she had remembered, just like every other time, her three year old son, the reason she had agreed to this life in the first place, the one person she loved and had to keep providing for, and like every other time, the thought had stopped her as well. She would continue to provide physical satisfaction for both men and women alike, and moan in fake ecstasy for their pleasure, till her son became old enough to care for himself.

My entry for @vermillionfox's flash fiction contest.

Image is from original post.