The Pretty Whore

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Cassie's life hasn't been all that great. Actually it's been exceedingly terrible. Still, things can always get worse and Cassie's about to find that out the hard way.

Still... at least she's still pretty right?

Submitted: August 20, 2015

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Submitted: August 20, 2015

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A mother’s greatest failure is the failure to be a good mother. Sylvia was that failure personified. She had not been a good mother. She had not even been a decent mother. She maybe hadn’t been the worst mother on Earth but she was damn near close.

The history books told of times in the past where poverty stricken parents had been forced to sell their children into slavery to survive, the newspapers today told of these cases in addition to cases where the parent or parents had sold their child into slavery for another reason, and that reason was for another dose of their drug of choice. They had needed just one more hit and with nothing left to sell, had turned on their children- had turned to their children as the most valuable thing they owned. They had put a price on life. Had surely undershot the value of that child by millions, but that hadn’t mattered at the time if ever it mattered at all. Only the next drag, the next puff, the next hit, the next snuff had mattered. What was a child for the joy of just one more high? What was one more mouth to feed when the joy of getting high was on the line?

These thoughts were what ran through Sylvia’s mind as she sold her daughter for the latter reason. Sylvia was a type. She was the type. She was that type that sold their children, and her daughter suffered for that. Sylvia sold her child with nary a thought, and certainly no remorse- to the pimp who gave her drugs because Sylvia herself wasn’t pretty enough anymore to use her body to get drugs. So she’d used her daughter instead.

Sylvia wasn’t pretty enough...

But her daughter on the other hand.

Her fourteen year old daughter- that was a different story. Her daughter was just right to be a whore. Or so the pimp had told her and she hadn’t cared enough to argue. Just one more hit. One more. One more, One more….

Now it was her daughter’s turn to want just one more hit. Just one more punch, just one more slap. Just one more, because she couldn’t survive much more than that and she knew that to ask for it to stop would be a death sentence in its own way. She knew she couldn’t survive much more. She knew she couldn’t…

Her mother had hit her too, as had her father before he’d left, but not like this. These weren’t hits of anger for dropping a plate or spilling juice on her dress, these were hits reserved for what people didn’t consider people. These were hits for the whores of the world.

Before being sold, the girl been called Cassie. She had owned a pretty blue dress and those short heals that all fourteen-year-old girls wore to church on Sundays. Now she was called Cunt, Bitch, and Ho, and she didn’t own a pretty blue dress. She didn’t even own her own skin anymore, but she did still wear heels, on Sundays and on every other day. These heels were taller of course, and went with fishnet stockings and too-short skirts, but they were heels all the same.

The man who now owned Cassie was, as expected of a pimp, unkind, and he hit her; but he also told Cassie how pretty she was, and when he stroked her hair away from her make-up smeared eyes the young girl tried to believe it. Cassie did whatever the man told her, not only because he called her pretty, but also because he had this “medicine” that made her feel better after the dirty men put their hands all over her. She wasn’t stupid and knew that this “medicine” wasn’t medicine at all, but what did she care? Why the Hell should she care when it was the only thing in the world that made the pain less. Did it make her like her mother? Yes, but Cassie didn’t care if she was like Sylvia when the drugs were in her system, they made everything better if only for a little while.

Drugs weren’t the only way Cassie coped. When the drugs weren’t in her system she comforted herself with the hate, and the thought that she was pretty like the pimp told her. She told herself that she was pretty even as the drugs ate away at her skin and teeth and nails. She told herself that she was pretty and good when the men in her bed were especially grotesque and gross, or cruel and callous. She told herself that she was pretty even when she was covered in bruises and sores. Because if she wasn’t pretty where did that leave her? What did that make her?

One of reasons Cassie loved to be called pretty was that it made her think of her grandma. Cassie liked to think of her grandma. Her grandma had always called her ‘her pretty, precious, baby girl’. Cassie liked to think about her grandma because she was the only person to never hit her, who had never hurt her and furthermore had kept other people from hitting Cassie too. Cassie just knew that if her grandmother had been there that Sylvia never would have sold her to the pimp. But that didn’t matter because Cassie’s grandmother was dead and couldn’t protect anybody anymore, not even her pretty, precious baby girl...

So Cassie called herself pretty, in her own head if not out loud, because thinking she was pretty seemed to make things better in a way that didn’t make sense but worked all the same.

Pretty. Cassie was a whore but at least she was a pretty whore right?

One day a customer wanted to take Cassie to his secret lair not a hotel. Cassie was far too old and jaded by that time to fall for such phrasings and said as much. But then the man had smiled and said that it was just because she was so pretty that he wanted a little more time with her than the usual. That had made Cassie say yes. Because he had said she was pretty. Something she wanted to believe more than anything. So she stupidly followed the man getting into his car where he'd promptly pressed the drug soaked rag on to her pretty little mouth and when she'd awoke she was in his not so pretty basement- naked, and chained, and afraid.

She was sixteen now but when she awoke she knew she’d never make it to see seventeen. She wasn’t a fool. She’d just wanted to be with someone who still thought she was pretty. Like her grandma always had and like the pimp had before the drugs had hit her really hard. Cassie cried then, and her tears weren’t pretty all all.

But then the man who had brought her there cut her up and made her scream and her screams at least were pretty.

At least that’s what he said as he cut her open. He then held her intestines in his hands and remarked on how pretty those were too and if it hadn’t hurt so damn bad, Cassie might have laughed because all this time she’d been obsessed with being pretty and apparently it was what was on the inside that counted...

 

 
 
 
 
 
 


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