The streets were lined with grime, and the perpetual fog tat never lifted
mde the air heavy with a rotting stench. Erika's heels clicked in patern
over the worn out sidewalks, as she drew her black coat closer to her body.
The chill air blew through the material, making her skin tighten into
goosebumps. Her fishnet stockings were already covered in dirt and scummy
rainwater, as it came from the sky in a bone-chilling, never-ending mist.
Her normaly well brushed long red hair hung heavy on her head, dragged down
by the weight of the rain.
She kept her head bent foward, letting loose a sigh that formed a cold cloud in front of her face. Still 3 blocks from home...or what passed as home at the moment. She was always moving, trying to find a decent dwelling away from gangs and muggers, someplace where she could live in peace and warm darkness, and spend her days painting...she always wanted to paint. But in order to afford anyplace to live, nice or not, she needed to work almost every hour of the day. Currently it was cleaning the back storeroom of a piercing joint, sterilizing the needles and aranging the dyes. She'd had worse jobs, like being the offical 'fish gutter' at a cheap seafood restaurant. But hey, you had to eat. And though she couldn't afford real paints, new brushes, or canvas, she made due with what she found at the pawn shop.
Erika turned a corner, deep in thought about the painting she yearned to create, when she almost walking into a tall man in a brown jacket. He turned his eyes to her, all of her, before giving a leecherous smirk and raising his eyebrows. She paused only for a moment to give a coy grin, making him let down his guard, before she thrust her thick boot into his knee, creating a sastisfying crack and an earsplitting cry of pain. She had bolted down the street before the man hit the pavement, clutching his splintered leg and fairly howling. Guilt was for the weak, she'd come across too many guys to even wait and see if they made a move to corner her. Any guy who looked at her funny was most likely about to be in pain. Serious pain. She'd learnt her morals of attack-first, think later the hard way. On her first day walking alone, right after her parents had died. Some guy made the same look....and she didn't react. The memory still burned in her soul, of the ultimate crime of human nature, aside from murder. She'd barely gotten away with her life...but she lost her confidence in human nature.
She sighed again, a habbit, and turned onto a small stoop, opening a large grey door. The stairs were dark except for the eerie glow of one lightbulb, hanging lonely from the cobweb encrusted ceiling. She climbed 5 flights of stairs before she came across her own battered door, and went in. Her room was dark, as always. She couldn't afford much electricity, and had to make due with some misshaped candles. After bolting the door and locking it, she fell back onto the small cot, kicking her boots off. All around the cot was paper and paints, spread haphazardly over every avaiable space. Some were splattered with color, some were all just black. It was the one canvas hanging on the wall, perfectly white and clean. That was her love. Someday, she'd paint on it. She'd paint a painting to make the gods look in wonder. It was mostly what she lived for, that one new canvas and the promise of her masterpiece to someday be. She'd slept on the streets for a week to afford it. It was worth it. Her blue eyes glanced up at it momentarily, and her pervious dark mood eased. The cot creaked as she rolled over, and a few tears somehow escaped at the corners of her eyes.
"This is my life..." she whispered, feeling mnore alone then ever before.
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She kept her head bent foward, letting loose a sigh that formed a cold cloud in front of her face. Still 3 blocks from home...or what passed as home at the moment. She was always moving, trying to find a decent dwelling away from gangs and muggers, someplace where she could live in peace and warm darkness, and spend her days painting...she always wanted to paint. But in order to afford anyplace to live, nice or not, she needed to work almost every hour of the day. Currently it was cleaning the back storeroom of a piercing joint, sterilizing the needles and aranging the dyes. She'd had worse jobs, like being the offical 'fish gutter' at a cheap seafood restaurant. But hey, you had to eat. And though she couldn't afford real paints, new brushes, or canvas, she made due with what she found at the pawn shop.
Erika turned a corner, deep in thought about the painting she yearned to create, when she almost walking into a tall man in a brown jacket. He turned his eyes to her, all of her, before giving a leecherous smirk and raising his eyebrows. She paused only for a moment to give a coy grin, making him let down his guard, before she thrust her thick boot into his knee, creating a sastisfying crack and an earsplitting cry of pain. She had bolted down the street before the man hit the pavement, clutching his splintered leg and fairly howling. Guilt was for the weak, she'd come across too many guys to even wait and see if they made a move to corner her. Any guy who looked at her funny was most likely about to be in pain. Serious pain. She'd learnt her morals of attack-first, think later the hard way. On her first day walking alone, right after her parents had died. Some guy made the same look....and she didn't react. The memory still burned in her soul, of the ultimate crime of human nature, aside from murder. She'd barely gotten away with her life...but she lost her confidence in human nature.
She sighed again, a habbit, and turned onto a small stoop, opening a large grey door. The stairs were dark except for the eerie glow of one lightbulb, hanging lonely from the cobweb encrusted ceiling. She climbed 5 flights of stairs before she came across her own battered door, and went in. Her room was dark, as always. She couldn't afford much electricity, and had to make due with some misshaped candles. After bolting the door and locking it, she fell back onto the small cot, kicking her boots off. All around the cot was paper and paints, spread haphazardly over every avaiable space. Some were splattered with color, some were all just black. It was the one canvas hanging on the wall, perfectly white and clean. That was her love. Someday, she'd paint on it. She'd paint a painting to make the gods look in wonder. It was mostly what she lived for, that one new canvas and the promise of her masterpiece to someday be. She'd slept on the streets for a week to afford it. It was worth it. Her blue eyes glanced up at it momentarily, and her pervious dark mood eased. The cot creaked as she rolled over, and a few tears somehow escaped at the corners of her eyes.
"This is my life..." she whispered, feeling mnore alone then ever before.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*