The Fallen

(First part to my story. It's orientated around a prostitute and the theme of fate).

Rebelling against the inevitable is the most fearsome yet grandeur of battles. A conflict that requires wit and unwavering determination rather than brutality - in the absence of guns and grenades can such an accomplishment be reached? Achieving the unachievable? Every man, woman and child is apparently in an on-going fight with the inevitable -the unavoidable destiny-. It is considered that fate can either hold "doom" or "fortune", fate is determined by sheer perspective whether to be regarded as a "struggle" or an "opportunity".

For any man can flail his arms in the air and admit defeat. A self righteous judgement that there is nothing that we as mere mortals can achieve against our "fates". For is fate a decision or a written inescapable? Is there a chosen path that is selected by the Hiearchy designated for our specific deeds - the more endulgent path is reserved for the deserving?

Philosophical empty questions that are devoid of all literal meaning to the majority because "fate" and "destiny" are both concepts. A  general, abstract notion that can be bellittled and disregarded or worshipped and idolisied. Indeed, there is a heated debate surrounding "fate", "destiny" and the "inevitable" - our emotions, our connections, our dreams - the questions often pondered around are rooted to the meaning of our existences.

But I believe that destiny is NOT just an idea, a falocy, or an escape route to problems. I believe that destiny is a hidden-power of the Universe, a beautifully evil power that is capable of exposing a human to their utter-most fears or similarly, saving them from the deepest and most sinister of states. For I was once a prisoner of fate, but it was fate in the end that set me free before it brought about my untimely demise.

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The regular feeling of repulsion at myself and my client arose in my physcial being as I gased at the sleeping man laying beside me. Disgusted I rose from my nemputal bed and put my clothes on; in the hope of concealing the remenents of my dignity. I didn't know what I was hoping to achieve. I signed over my dignity in blood and sealed it with a heroin kiss only six months ago.
Recognising the stir, my client awoke. His face produced a putrid smile as he began to sit up and move towards me. His hands gripped around me and pulled me down towards him. Either the man was delussional believing that I had acquired an emotional connection towards him during a drug-dazed session last night or he was chancing his luck to see how far I would go without pay. The latter seemed more likely, which was a usual client response. This was nothing out of the ordinary, and there was no need to panic... I repeated this to myself as I scanned his strewn clothes on the floor for potential weapons. I gently tugged away from his forced encasement to judge his reaction. A safety protocol of extreme proportions.

To be continued...