~a/n: this is another one that's been killing me. I got this idea while on
a bus and staring out the window into the night, at least two months ago,
and as I got off another bus today I only now feel ready to share it. It's
also like my last story *see "Kamikaze"* in the sense that some people
might not approve of the portrayal of the main character. I hope you
approve, though.
S t r a n g e A n g el
The day after the night that changed my life, I read about her death in the newspaper. A young woman, no older than twenty, jumped to her death off of a hotel roof. She was unidentified as of yet, but I knew exactly who she was.
I met her on the bus, when she sat next to me. I was smartly dressed- expensive looking black business suit, sensible shoes, and obligatory smug look of a stock market wiz in the making. She, however, had chosen to attire herself in a midriff baring violet shirt, almost nonexistent black skirt, and attention-getting makeup. Her face was adorned with all the beautiful tragedy of a harlequin clown and her eyes were dull and lifeless.
She sat right next to me in the back, despite the fact that the entire bus was empty. I was reading the Wall Street Journal by the streetlights outside the window and shooting looks at her out of the corner of my eyes.
"Is there something I can help you with?" she asked.
If I were a shy man, or at least a sensible one, I would have shaken my head and snuck my glances more carefully. But this was before my life changed, and I was still the brash only child of a rich family. "I was wondering how anyone could let their life get away from them like that."
"Like what?" she countered. Her accent was strange, British mixed with the harsh tones of life on the New York streets.
"How does a woman go from someone's daughter, someone's granddaughter, and someone's best friend to being little more than someone's cheap thrill?"
She stared off far, her eyes glazing over. "It gets away from you. No one ever likes to think of themselves as a whore, or an addict, or even a bad person. I'm not Sunny Bauldilare anymore, youngest of a family that was destined for misery. I'm just Sunshine, or Daisy, or whatever I'm needed to be at the time."
I stared at her. I hadn't spent much time in the city, but I'd met my fair share of prostitutes, but none of them ever seemed to have a soul. All they ever wanted was money for their various addictions and whatever else. And yet here was one such young woman, bearing her soul trustingly to a rich stranger on the bus.
"No one wants to end up like this, you know," she continued. "At one point I was going to be a chef, and live out a happy life with my own little restaurant. I never thought that this was what I would degenerate into."
I looked at the floor, guilt rising in me like the swelling of some ghastly balloon in the pit of my stomach. All my life things had been handed to me, and it felt wretched to hear what her life had become for her. I felt sick, disgusted with myself.
I finally forced myself to look up at her. She was crying, but smiling through her tears as the bus rolled to a stop.
I wanted to say something to her as she rose to leave. "Wait," I said.
She turned. "What, were you planning to render my services for the evening?"
I opened and closed my mouth several times, but something in her eyes made each word shrivel and die in my throat. I squeezed her hand and found myself stammering "good luck."
She smiled sincerely, and a dim sign of life shone in her eyes. "Thank you. You too."
She left. Something in that look changed me, made me care. I may give up my ideas of stock trading and try to become a doctor. You know, help people. I may not, though. I may just give a little bit, everyday, and hope for the best.
Someone next to me just said it was a shame about that whore who offed herself. I don't think she was a whore. Me, I think she was an angel sent to put me on the right track, and she was going home.
S t r a n g e A n g el
The day after the night that changed my life, I read about her death in the newspaper. A young woman, no older than twenty, jumped to her death off of a hotel roof. She was unidentified as of yet, but I knew exactly who she was.
I met her on the bus, when she sat next to me. I was smartly dressed- expensive looking black business suit, sensible shoes, and obligatory smug look of a stock market wiz in the making. She, however, had chosen to attire herself in a midriff baring violet shirt, almost nonexistent black skirt, and attention-getting makeup. Her face was adorned with all the beautiful tragedy of a harlequin clown and her eyes were dull and lifeless.
She sat right next to me in the back, despite the fact that the entire bus was empty. I was reading the Wall Street Journal by the streetlights outside the window and shooting looks at her out of the corner of my eyes.
"Is there something I can help you with?" she asked.
If I were a shy man, or at least a sensible one, I would have shaken my head and snuck my glances more carefully. But this was before my life changed, and I was still the brash only child of a rich family. "I was wondering how anyone could let their life get away from them like that."
"Like what?" she countered. Her accent was strange, British mixed with the harsh tones of life on the New York streets.
"How does a woman go from someone's daughter, someone's granddaughter, and someone's best friend to being little more than someone's cheap thrill?"
She stared off far, her eyes glazing over. "It gets away from you. No one ever likes to think of themselves as a whore, or an addict, or even a bad person. I'm not Sunny Bauldilare anymore, youngest of a family that was destined for misery. I'm just Sunshine, or Daisy, or whatever I'm needed to be at the time."
I stared at her. I hadn't spent much time in the city, but I'd met my fair share of prostitutes, but none of them ever seemed to have a soul. All they ever wanted was money for their various addictions and whatever else. And yet here was one such young woman, bearing her soul trustingly to a rich stranger on the bus.
"No one wants to end up like this, you know," she continued. "At one point I was going to be a chef, and live out a happy life with my own little restaurant. I never thought that this was what I would degenerate into."
I looked at the floor, guilt rising in me like the swelling of some ghastly balloon in the pit of my stomach. All my life things had been handed to me, and it felt wretched to hear what her life had become for her. I felt sick, disgusted with myself.
I finally forced myself to look up at her. She was crying, but smiling through her tears as the bus rolled to a stop.
I wanted to say something to her as she rose to leave. "Wait," I said.
She turned. "What, were you planning to render my services for the evening?"
I opened and closed my mouth several times, but something in her eyes made each word shrivel and die in my throat. I squeezed her hand and found myself stammering "good luck."
She smiled sincerely, and a dim sign of life shone in her eyes. "Thank you. You too."
She left. Something in that look changed me, made me care. I may give up my ideas of stock trading and try to become a doctor. You know, help people. I may not, though. I may just give a little bit, everyday, and hope for the best.
Someone next to me just said it was a shame about that whore who offed herself. I don't think she was a whore. Me, I think she was an angel sent to put me on the right track, and she was going home.
