Poor, Pretty Creature

Prologue Some might say that it is courtesy to start with one’s name. But as a wise man once said, what’s in a name, really? I could describe myself to you, but nothing that I say will be convincing, on the simple merit that it is me describing it. I might tell you that I am beautiful, and you will wonder if I am vain. I might tell you that I am dangerous, and you will wonder if I am deluded. I want to tell you that I am the taste of blood and death on a woman’s lips. I am the midnight hour, struck while you’re alone. I am a knock-off Prada bag stolen off a vender’s cart. But none of this, you will believe, because all of this is what I want to be convincing to you— but not what I truly am. If you want the true measure of what I am, I find that it is best to tell you my story. And should I? You won’t like it. You may not even want to hear it. You may shut up your ears and close your eyes and chant over me, but that won’t erase the fact that I need to tell it nonetheless. It is a story that is held inside of me, bursting to get out, to be free. And as the years pass, it gets worse, not better. At first, it was easy to ignore the story. No, not just easy; desirable. I wanted nothing more than to ignore it, to forget it completely. I wanted to wipe it out of my history, to pretend that it never happened, that that wasn’t me. I wasn’t that girl. I didn’t do those things. It was a difficult thing to wipe out at first, but it became simpler as time passed, as my story changed, as I met new people. All I had to do was refrain from mentioning it. Except, it was still there. It’s always been there, just behind me, lingering over my shoulder and informing everything I do. I feel it, and I want it gone. I want to move on. I want to transform into something better. Something stronger. And I know that the only way to do that now is to confront the story. For better or for worse, I need to acknowledge it in order to forget it. Whether you want me to or not. You probably don’t want me to. But, quite frankly, I don’t care what you want. And what led me to this life-changing decision that brought me here, you might ask? It was nothing, really, a small meeting that transpired the other night, completely by chance. I had entered the theatre with a date, and I left it alone, my lips ruby red and smeared with blood. The hour, by that point, was late, but I didn’t much care. I had nowhere to be until sunrise, and I was feeling good. I wasn’t quite ready to go home and be cooped up within four walls again. The night was chilly but inviting, and I decided to take a walk. There was still plenty to do and see, after all. There were still drunkards awake in the bars, and addicts awake in the streets. There were nocturnal artists, hard at work, and there were insomniacs, inching closer to madness. These were my sorts of people; the people I related to, the people that I saw in myself and wanted to be around, more than the silent audiences that packed the theatre houses. There was nothing in particular that I was looking for, but I hoped to find this—this desperation, this need, this sincerity. I hoped to be immersed in it. Maybe that was why I ended up in the back alley streets, listening to the prostitutes whistling and hooting and generally trying to get my attention. Chances are, they recognized me from times before. Courtesy might dictate that I should stop and talk with them, but as I hope I have already established, I’m not much for courtesy. I didn’t want to be a part of anything that night. I just wanted to walk and observe and exist. I had done this many times before, and I would have done it again—except there was something that caught my eye. It was a man, just on the opposite side of the street from me. A male prostitute, standing out on the chilly, autumn streets and passively waiting for a john to pick him up. It wouldn’t take long, with a face like his. He wasn’t trying to catch my attention. He didn’t even notice me, not at first. But my eye fell on him, and it stayed on him. I should have passed him right by. I should have ignored him, it should have been easy. I wish it were. But he brought it all back for me, and here I am now, telling you my story, revisiting it all again. And, god, I wish it were a better story. I wish that I could tell you that the person I am now is who I have always been. I wish that I had been born strong, unrelenting, and powerful. I wish you didn’t have to see this side of me. But this side exists, and I suppose that I need to let it. For the first time in years, I need to get back to my beginning.