I'm going to try something different for this chapter. Instead of being dull and repetitive I'm going to use BIGGER words and more ADJECTIVES! I have a giant nine week project coming up for a class I'm in and I need the practice. Oh, and I find it necessary to describe her first "job" before we get to Erik…it just seems right. Now onto the story! Cheers!
The men had been more then eager to lend a hand to a "worthy" cause. The first one of the night had taken her to his apartment. It was more upper class then Rose was used to and she was astounded by the many knick knacks the man had procured.
"You have a wonderful collection," she remarked, marveling at a glass figurine of a ballet dancer which adorned the shelf of a wooden china Cabinet. The man scoffed and tossed his waist coat onto a rather expensive looking arm chair.
"My wife is a fan of junk," he spat, "She wouldn't know art if it bit her on the ass!" Rose turned her head at these harsh words.
"My first trick…a married man!" She thought and ran a hand across a volume of books. They were titles and authors she had never heard of. She wondered what stories those novels told. The man had finished removing his odds and ends and crossed to her.
"How much will this little get together cost me?" he asked, his demeanor changing from his previous outburst. The look of lust in his eyes startled Rose and reminded her of Seamus right before he took her.
"How much?" she stuttered. The man rolled his eyes.
"Money," he said, simply annoyed with her at this point, "I assume you're a whore by the way you carry yourself and I am accustomed to paying my whore." Rose nodded and tried to gather amounts in her head.
"Fifty Francs?" she replied. The man eyed her suspiciously but that suspicion quickly melted into acceptance.
"Cheap I see," he smirked, "Well, this must be my lucky day!" Rose felt completely repulsed by this man and the way he carried himself. Not only was he cheating on his wife but he openly insulted her antiques to a woman he did not even know!
"Where would you prefer to do this?" she asked. On the outside she was playing the part but inside she was screaming.
"My bedroom," was his reply. He guided her to the room which was tainted by the touch of a woman. The bed was covered in satin, a material Rose had not felt in ages. Would Satin forever remind her of this moment in time? The man spread himself on the bed and motioned for her to say where she was.
"Undress," he ordered. Rose, knowing when to obey, began to slip off her thin dress. It was an ugly grey colour that did not flatter her at all. Her father had paid a man to alter it from its original virginal appearance to what it was now, a whore's outfit. She wore no undergarments save the stockings she wore out of habit; her father often told her that a prostitute did not deserve fancy frills underneath their clothing. The man licked his lips, anticipation mounting underneath his trousers. Rose could see that this would not take long; the man had not even taken off his pants.
"Come," he demanded. She walked slowly towards him, her shame showing. He smiled at her uncomfortable demeanor. She placed her body beside his and closed her eyes as she felt his lips on her neck. Rose's mind flashed to Seamus and the many nights he explored her body before plunging into her.
"I'm not one for foreplay," he announced. Rose titled her head to one side and caught a glimpse of the moon through the window. It was bright, casting its haunting glow on the edge of the bed. She turned her head back towards the man and watched as he mounted her frail and lifeless body.
"If only he knew he made love to a woman already dead," she thought as he plunged inside of her. She gritted her teeth and took the pounding as he brought himself down upon her again and again. His breathing became deeper as he neared an orgasm. Rose felt nothing, her body numb to the touch of a man. She could feel his juices inside of her as he let out a straggled cry as he erupted. Rose had barely lifted a finger and she'd made a measly fifty francs. How was she to live this life? He climbed off of her and sat on the bed, his breathing becoming normal once again. He buttoned up his pants and turned to her.
"I will get your money while you dress," he said and got off the bed and left the room. She covered her breasts with her arm and nearly flew from the confines of the bed. She dressed quickly, not wanting to spend another moment in that place. He returned just as she was fully clothed. He did not look at her when he handed her the money. She took it and stuck it in a pocket her father had requested be sewn onto the material.
"You know where the door is," he snapped. His disgust with her had already begun to show. So this is how it was to be. A man would take her for a moment and then cast her aside; indifferent to whether she lived or died? Rose had known that this was what she was in for and yet she couldn't help but want to turn away from it all. The thought of dying without a roof over her head frightened her away from the notion of running. Her father might have been a bastard but he was the one who fed her and gave her somewhere to stay.
She left the apartment, the door slamming shut behind her. She did not care that this man treated her like scum. Upon exiting the building she almost ran into a woman carrying a baby.
"Excuse me," Rose apologized. The woman turned her nose up at her and entered the building. Was that the wife? If so, she was glad she'd shagged her husband.
This routine continued for the next few months. Her rates had gone up since that first night, Seamus's beating assured that. She still felt the shame that came from undressing in front of a stranger, or being roughly thrown onto a bed fully clothed. The constant invasion of her body numbed her emotions and left her an empty shell. Every night she was on auto-pilot, the lines well rehearsed. Every motion, every kiss, every scream, was an act. She could not feel passion if she had wanted to. Sex was a game to her, the men the opponents. She became friends with some of the other girls who frequented the streets. Some worked free lance and others came from the many Bordellos that lined the streets. One such girl was a young jewel named Sophie. She was only fourteen but looked eighteen. The life she had lived aged her considerably. She still possessed a beauty many of the other whores did not. Her hair was a bright blonde, her eyes a sky blue. Her keeper kept her well fed so her body was curvaceous and sensual. Her face was filled with knowledge and at the same time possessed a quite innocence. She met her one night while waiting for a man to approach her. The young one had come over and asked if she could stand with her, the night air had been chilled by a sudden breeze. At first Rose turned her away but once she looked into this wide, doe eyes she was hooked. They shared the heat from each others bodies until one was whisked off. Their other meetings had been similar but more time had been there's. They talked little and instead, soaked in each others presence.
So, on this particular night, when Sophie had found her and once again stood by her side, she began to ask questions. Rose accepted interaction.
"Bitter night," Sophie suddenly spoke up, making Rose's heart skip a beat. She turned to her younger companion and smiled.
"Yes," she agreed, "Certainly not a night to be standing outside." Sophie laughed softly but quickly stopped. It was not proper for a whore to laugh.
"Where do you come from?" Sophie asked. If she had been any younger, Rose might have thought this question rather impromptu and personal, but since her long stays on the streets had aged her, she felt compelled to answer.
"Waterford," she replied, "It's in Ireland." Sophie nodded.
"I like your accent," she said softly and looked down to her feet. Rose almost smiled but felt it fade as a carriage approached them. Rose had never been picked up by anyone wealthy enough to afford a carriage. From the shadows of the box she heard an emotionless and stilted voice say,
"You, what is your name?" Rose thought this question odd but ran with it anyway.
"Rose Amelia," she responded, trying to see into the black but unable to make out any shape.
"A rose you are," he said, "Join me in my carriage." She turned to look at Sophie who shrugged and motioned for her to join the stranger. Rose cautiously approached the coach until she could see inside better. She could make out the figure of a man sitting quite still near the window adjacent from the one she peered into. She opened the small door and climbed inside. The man motioned for her to sit across from him and she did without argument. The carriage then began to move again, leaving Sophie behind in the darkness. The man that sat before her hid his face from her beneath a hooded cloak. He was dressed from head to toe in black.
"We shall go to your place," he ordered quite harshly, emotion finally coloring his voice. She looked out the carriage window and watched houses pass.
"I'm not accustomed to taking clients to my house," she informed. The man chuckled and extended his hand. In it was a pile of francs. The paper was calling out to her.
"My house it is." She gave the driver directions and they rode in silence. She did not want to talk to this man, he scared her.
When they arrived at the house she got out first and waited for him to emerge. He did not at first but slowly made his way out. She was becoming impatient. None of her other clients had given her this much trouble. He seemed older, more haggard and bent. She did not mind older men, they paid better then most of the younger ones. This one was no exception. She led him to her small room at the back of the shack she called home. Ever since she'd began her "job" they'd moved out of the box they had dwelled in and moved up a class. It was still the slums. Her bed was nothing more then a mattress stuffed with hay. It was better then sleeping on the floor at any rate.
"How may I service you tonight Monsieur?" she said, each line flowing together as she had practiced. Usually the men would tell her what they wanted and she'd tell them what it would cost. This was not the case tonight. The man approached her and slapped her across the face. The force of his hand on her face so suddenly made her cry out in pain. She had not expected this.
"I am a whore not a," she began but stopped when the man lifted his hood back. The right side of his face was covered by a white mask, its features as expressionless as the sex she endured every night. The other side was a confused mess of scars and burn marks. Underneath them she might have found a rather handsome man, one tortured by the marks he'd made. They all looked rather fresh, barley weeks old. She wanted to ask how they'd gotten there, why he wore a mask, but she never made the clients personal life her business.
"You will be what I tell you to be," he said, his eyes running down her body, "You will do what I tell you to do." He approached her, something most men did not do. Her breath caught in her throat as this beaten and torn man brought his body up against hers and backed her into the wall. His breath was hot on her face, his hands icy as they pinned her wrists to the wall above her head. She turned her head away from him, his breath now warming her neck.
"How does one become so lost?" She did not answer his question as she felt his lips press against her neck
"Do you not answer for it is not accustom for men to ask these things?" the man asked, his nails digging into her flesh.
"Why do you ask these things?" she countered as she bit her lip to stifle a cry of pain. She could feel a small trickle of blood run down her arm.
"I do as I please," he said, releasing her. She fell to the ground nursing her wounds. She looked up at the man who threw the money at her. She watched the francs fall like rain around her.
"I expect you for myself in a fortnight," he boldly stated, "If you comply more then that will be at your disposal. There is a small village not to far from here and in this village there is an abandoned church. If you wish to keep your health and be paid, you will be there at nightfall." With that the man turned and took his leave of Rose. She heard the sound of horse's quick steps fading off into the night. Why did this man want her to meet him at this abandoned church? More importantly, why her?
