Shiny, Shiny Boots of Leather

A young prostitute walks away from an appointment that ended disastrously. The title is inspired by "Venus in Furs" by The Velvet Underground.

She knows she's not being followed, yet she keeps walking steadily on. There's nothing or no one to be seen, and ahead of her and behind her the lanes stretch on for miles of visible road.
       Empty.
       She should be tired, but she's not. Her feet should ache, but she's too numb to feel it. She staggers on, in high heeled boots and torn stockings. Her right hand clutches a purse, its reins hanging towards the ground, swinging from side to side in sync with her movements. Her fingernails are painted red, but several of them are broken, and the polish is peeling off. Her index and middle fingers are scratched where she scrapes them against her teeth above the toilet bowl twice a day, after tying her hair in a pony tail at the back of her neck. The hair hangs in greasy, dirty blonde waves around her face now.
       Her age is hard to determine. She's dressed up to look older than she is, but underneath her makeup hides a face that might not yet be out of her teens. Her skin is white, apart from her cheeks on which a fake blush is powdered, and black mascara and eyeliner gathers in a tiny net of wrinkles around her eyes. Mimic wrinkles witnessing of a better time, with things to smile about, not so long ago. Her red lipstick has been rubbed off, and her bloodless lips are visible through the remains of it.
       The sweat running down her back is cold, and it clings her tank top to her body as if it were the forecasted rain that never seems to show up. She pulls the fake fur closer around her with her free hand, and shudders. The zipper is broken, and she holds it shut against a wind that out of nowhere starts pulling at the trees around her. There are no shadows on the ground in these final, grey hours before dawn. No colours, no contours. Through this washed-out world she shuffles, like a somnambulist, one foot absent-mindedly placed in front of the other.
       Left foot.
       Right foot.
       Left foot.
       And she stumbles. Falls down on her knees, crawls a few steps before getting back up, without stopping. Moving forward being her only purpose, she doesn't pay attention to anything else. The sharp pain shooting up from her right knee, where a patch of crimson is emerging through her stockings, doesn't stop her. If anything, it gives her something to focus on, something to take her mind off something else. It's no different from the cuts and scratches on her arms, straight, parallel wounds on top of straight, parallel scars.
       Her fingers are stained yellow by the cigarettes she's now craving. She's got a package of Virginia Slims in her purse, but she knows there's only one left. Her hands are starting to shake, and she moves her feet quicker, as if trying to walk away from her nicotine withdrawal, but she ends up taking shorter steps, and just gets nowhere faster.
       Clouds are gathering above, and with them a promise of rain, finally. But she doesn't notice. The weather means nothing to her, apart from the immediate discomfort of it. Her skirt, tight and short, is riding up her skinny thighs, but she neglects her usual habit of pulling at it to keep it in place. He hates that habit. Or, he hated.
       She stops. For the first time since she left his house in the middle of the night, she slows down and stops. She stops, just as the first few drops of rain falls down on her, and on the thirsty ground around her, not believing its luck. In disbelief it leaves the drops where they fall, forming small pearls of precious water on top of the sandy ditches and the dark tarmac, before greed outwits the incredulity, and the treasure sinks into the earth, leaving only a damp patch on the surface.
       She's rummaging her purse, seeking the cigarette pack in a panic that increases as quickly as it overwhelmed her. She finds the package, and - hands trembling - she shakes out the last one. Fumbling to put it in her mouth at the same time as searching for the lighter, she drops it to the ground, where it soaks up the droplets of rain that fall with it.
       She's immobilised for a moment, just staring at the white, broken cigarette, like it's a worm coming up for air after its underground tunnels are flooded by the overhead rain. Then, with a high-pitched sound, like a shriek of pain from a wounded animal, she falls to her knees as the events of the night overwhelm her.
       In glimpses she can see his face above her in his bed. Her hands tied to the headboard, she has no choice but to endure the cold blade of the knife against her skin, wondering when he'll actually cut her. For three nights a week he loves her, controls her, consumes her, and then hates her. It's the way he likes it and it's what he pays for.
       No more.
       With his back to her, getting dressed, she was the one to take control, knife in hand, and an uncontrollable rage surging through her.
       Now, miles and hours away, she's crying so hard that her sobs become gagging, and she retches dryly a few times without throwing up. She sits in the ditch with her legs stretched out in front of her, like a rag doll. She has no strength left in her, and just sits like this, feeling all the aches of her body submerge into one, all consuming pain.
       Now, after claiming her body back, and her control back, the fear and shame has been replaced by emptiness and solitude. And more fear. And more shame.
       Above her, the sky opens up, and lets out an ocean. With the water drip-drip-dripping from the tips of her hair, down her face, commingling with her mascara-black tears, she grabs her purse, and, clutching it in her fist as before, she gets up upon her high heeled boots, and keeps on walking.

Author's Note

I'd love some advanced critique on this story to help me improve. So please be honest!

Reviews

[.]

Not a bad story at all. Very nice description. Paints a nice picture without overdoing it. There are a couple of sentences that I would look at if I were you. The first one is "If anything, it gives her something to focus on, something to take her mind of something else." There are one too many "somethings" in that sentence, and I would recommend reworking the last section of the sentence. Having two in that section is the part that really caught my attention as something that needed to be reworded. The next sentence is the one beginning with "She's rummaging her purse..." You forgot a word there, and the whole thing could use a little cleaning so it flows a little better. It's nothing really major, just a few little details. The bigger issues are with the overall writing structure. You did in this story what I used to do (and probably still do now and again). You have a bunch of description at the beginning and then when your climax comes, you rush over it. Everything is build up to the moment when she has her flashback of the event. That needs to be brought out more, described more and developed. Otherwise it just kind of flops with all the build up. Poppy brought up an interesting issue that I would also like to address. She "liked the hints at her earlier, happier life." I agree, the hints are good, but they are only hints. It is that earlier happier life that gives the character depth, but when you only hint at that life, you only hint at the character's depth. I think that if you were to expand this piece, most of these issues would be resolved. Nice read, I enjoyed the story.

[Poppy]

I enjoyed reading this piece. I agree that the basis of the storyline may be a little cliched but it is done well.

The descriptions conjure up a real feeling of emptiness and desolation and the main focus on the characters physical description underlines the souless, anonymous nature of her life style.

I liked the hints at her earlier, happier life, this gave the character depth and increased my sympathy for her. It would be interesting to read a story concerned with why she became a prostitute.

[dark and twisty]

Intense, good build up of tension..but honestly , I thought it was bit cliched. The description of a young prostitute, the way one of her clients has his way with her in a manner that borders on violence and she tries to take control of it or let the rage against him take over her one night. It's a plot that's been used time and again - maybe if you added more depth of her description, rather than focusing on the physical - i liked the scene where she breaks down..even though as a reader i expected it, you wrote it well enough for me to feel her emotion, to relate it to her..maybe you could do the same for the rest of the story.