The girl who came into this world splayed out and writhing on her mother’s kitchen floor is the girl who learned to speak sat in dusty corners, exchanging words with four-legged friends. She is the girl who was shunned not only by her peers but by herself in school, and who grew up to work back-alley jobs for back-alley pay checks.
He is the one who grew up in gold, his every desire met with crisp bank notes – his classmates blessed with avocado bruises, pressed from his skin to theirs. They always were below him. He grew up into business, with his riches on one side and his whores on the other.
He is the one who claimed her.
His coins and his shelter were all it took. His own little plaything to censor and rule over... mummy and daddy never got him a birthday gift quite like this.
She loved him so, the poor thing. For every guest she couldn’t meet and every friend she couldn’t keep, he told her he loved her and that was all there was. He told her he loved her as he locked her in and as he dressed her up. ‘I love my slut’. That’s what he’d say.
If she’d ever known happiness growing up... well, then maybe this was how it would have felt. I’m happy, she’d think as he tore inside her every night. I’m happy, as she covered her bruises every morning.
And when they found her stone cold at 25, with a note by an empty bottle that read ‘I’m sorry’, they could not see her spirit – the spirit that hung above them – drifting. She whispered, observing as crocodile tears fell below her, ‘I’m free’.
But poor, innocent, naive she... of course she wasn’t free. The girl who learnt to seek comfort in dusty corners and who took shelter in neglect could never hope to see...
Even her wings were dirty.
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