Destined for Destruction

Walking the streets at night forces me to play a destructive game of Russian roulette. My customers are the handguns in my business, cocking their barrel-like genitals in my face, grinning because they know they'll always have the upper hand when I'm around them. Their chambers are fully locked and loaded, held by iron-hard hands that could easily break bones. Some have actually fractured parts of me. I hope I never give them the pleasure of committing worse than that. But my chances at survival dwindle each time I leave my apartment, whenever a psychotic patron approaches me, every day I wake up in a trash littered alley, bloody beyond recognition and without any recollection of what happened. Why do I do this to myself? What twisted fuck allows himself to be publicly degraded for twenty bucks, sometimes earning less than scrap change in an ashtray? The answer may not be pure, but it is simple: me.

I'm the one pushing myself to do this, to be a human sex animal, sucking off every infected heathen who taunts me with some bills. I'm the boy- turned-bitch, flashing perfect strangers my childish, underdeveloped body. I'm also the idiot who chose to stay with an egotistical, insecure asshole. Someone who swore he'd never hurt me. Someone who even dared to claim he loved me.

That liar. It's not even a year into our relationship and he makes it his entertainment to fuck me harder than any of my clients do. Damned rapist. I sometimes wonder if my being stranded unconscious is the work of a random drunk or my so-called lover's doing. There's a catch phrase that hangs in the crowds of gang bangers, white-collar crooks, and other shady creatures that roam the causeways out here: there's some things in life you're better off not knowing. For the most part, I ignored whatever anyone told me. Taking the advice of an addict, alcoholic, or drug dealer never appealed to me, but their little slogan haunted me worse than my fear of being abducted did. I guess it made sense to me 'cause there was a ring of truth to it. The hung-over freaks had that right: there were some things I was better off not knowing. And contemplating whether or not I would be my boyfriend's next statistic was one of them.

My head hurts. Thinking about complicated crap makes the hour seem later than it is. A quick glance at my watch tells me it's only one a.m. It already feels like it's somewhere around three thirty, quarter to four. I lift my eyes from the asphalt and dispel a sigh.

Oh, joy, I think sarcastically, four more hours. Only four more hours to go, then that's it. Another night'll be over. I'll be free.

Freedom. The idea of going wherever I want and doing whatever the hell I choose to almost makes me laugh.

Being free...what's that? Really, what the fuck is that all about?

Shaking my head, I jam a shaky hand into my cool, crotch-level shorts. The bottoms are snazzy, but the damned things cut off my circulation. That's not to mention the fact that they ride up my ass every time I make a move, or that they give sickos a free shot of tail as I pass them by. I can stand pulling the leather out of my crack, but I hate-I mean really fucking hate it-when some loser at a crosswalk assumes I love having my butt grabbed. Those screw holes. I'm a pay-per-view babe, not a play-per-view charity. Get the fucking Playboy channel if you can't keep you're cock to yourself, you arrogant bastards.

Hey, I tell myself vacantly, it's all about letting yourself go, about being totally free, right?

Cracking a bitter grin, I pull out a box of smokes from my pocket.

"Mmm..." I murmur, practically salivating at the sight of my dearest, oldest friend, "cancer. Possible lung problems. Death by nicotine."

Gingerly, I pluck a cigarette from the carton, throw the empty cardboard over my shoulder, then stick the coveted prize in my mouth. I can already taste the rolled tobacco on my tongue, driving my senses wild with its intoxicating scent. For a few seconds, I stop shivering. The cravings for noxious gases are declining. I can't believe how much the notion of inhaling dangerous chemicals calms me down. Who cares if I don't get a gig tonight? I've got all I need right here, in my hand, and that's all that matters. Nothing can get to me- not getting raped, having the shit kicked out of me by the light of my life, not even my chronic paranoia of never returning home again. Bullshit, that's all bullshit to me at this point. Now it's just me an' my mistress, Virginia Slim, enjoying each other's company by sucking the life outta one another. I'll gladly drink that honey up with a straw. Yeah, baby.

An early morning wind ruffles my bangs, as I search my jacket for a lighter. I've got a whole freaking convenience store of items shoved in its satin compartments, everything from Tylenol (half a bottle spent on last night's hangover), to gum, last-minute cosmetic touch-ups, even a few condoms to guard against STDs. Rubbers. Now that's a joke. Hardly any of my customers agreed to use protection. Most flat-out refused.

"God damnit!" I swore angrily, teeth chomping at the bit, wanting nothing more than to give into habitual addiction. "Where's it at? Where is that damned thing?"

My hands rummaged through the onyx compartments once more, shaking with anticipation, motivated by an oncoming withdrawal. There's no way I'd be able to handle being out here alone without my menthols. No way, no how. It just couldn't be done. Frantic fingers scoured every hole present, touching everything around them, feeling nothing but numb as countless objects were pushed aside.

"Let's see..." I mumbled absently, forfeiting potential jobs for a longer break, "lip gloss, eyeliner, foundation, breath mint wrappers, miniature vibrator, a pair of hoops, arms socks-" Realizing my beloved flame thrower was nowhere to be found, I balled my hands into tight fists and clenched my jaw. "Shit! What am I gonna do? Just what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Great. I haven't met my quota yet, I'm freezing in clothes that can't equal more than a yard's worth of material, and I've wasted an ass load of time looking for a cheap butane lighter that was probably stolen while I was on the city bus. Yeah, sweetheart, Yami's gonna love that pitiful excuse of mine. I bet he'll be so amused by my stupidity that I'll be choking on my own blood before sunrise tomorrow. Pissed at myself, I pressed my head against a street lamp, sullenly staring at the cracks in the sidewalk as a car skidded past.

Shoulda bought the damned thing. I reasoned internally. Gas stations up the block sell 'em four for a dollar. Why jack around trying to find some fire starter when they go for such a low price elsewhere? Am I really so dumb that I can't save myself the trouble and just go pick one up? What am I, some fucking masochist?

Too busy talking smack; I didn't even notice the dark figure in front of me until a sharp pain gutted my body. Cold reality was gripping me by the hair, jerking my head back, provoking a terrified scream from my throat, but I never got that far. One large palm covered my mouth while another jabbed a weapon in my side. There was no doubt in my mind what was happening. I was being held hostage. No mercy would be shown. I was on my own. In other words, I was as good as dead.

"If you struggle, if you try to make a single break for it while I have you, I'll slit your throat." Threatened the shadow in a low, menacing voice. "Got it, you prissy cunt?" When I didn't respond fast enough, he stuck his blade by my neck, poking my Adam's apple with the dull tip. "Got it?" he repeated, more loudly, even more aggressively.

Not ready to journey to the afterlife just yet, I quickly nodded my head. Any wrong move could set this guy off. He was a real piece of work all right, using fear-based tactics to get me to comply with his dirty demands. I hate being a whore. I mean I really, really hate being this way. If the controlling, possessive bitch I was engaged to didn't threaten to decapitate me, I would have quite this God-forsaken "profession" of mine in a heartbeat. But, as luck would have it, I'm not in a position to make that kinda choice. I'm not even in the right position to prevent myself from becoming another murder story.

Where are you? My blood-shot eyes question the apocalyptic skies. Where are you angels when I need them? Where's that precious heavenly father that's rumored to grant miracles to the destitute, who preaches that simply believing in Him will save you from any self-created hell?

"You...you coward." I spat hatefully under my breath. "God, if you truly exist, you're nothing but a demented coward."

How else could a loving, compassionate creator let shit like this go one? What other explanation was there, besides the one I came up with? Well, fuck the religion rap. Fuck religion, fuck it all, 'cuz no one cares how far you fall. No one. Not your abusive reject of a fiancée, lunatics who stalk you on the street, or God Almighty perched on His big, cocky cloud throne in heaven. No one gives a damn about you. Not even yourself.

Feeling closer to hell than I ever have, I let myself be dragged behind a ghetto pawnshop, imagining that the broken glass on the ground were shards for an angel's wings destined for destruction.