In the face of death.

A short story I handed in for an assignment in my Writer's Craft class.

 

      She was a thin girl, with frail looking arms and an even frailer looking face, if such a thing was even possible. Perhaps it was her eyes, big and blue, with long dark lashes that stood out so starkly against her pale skin. Then again, maybe it was her hair; long, stringy and the color of ebony. I watched her lying there across an old park bench, barely under the shade of a tall weeping willow. The aged tree swayed and moaned with the wind, as its great hanging branches glowed lucidly under the faint beams of white moonlight that filtered eerily over the girl. She seemed to be sleeping, but as I watched her from my spot across the street, every now and then I could almost glimpse the muscles in her face tensing slightly every time a passerby walked near her. Sometimes her eyelids would even flutter open when one came too close, and she would immediately struggle to push herself up into a sitting position, the grubby blanket slipping from her bare shoulders and cascading into her lap, and fix the offender with such a defiant stare as I have never seen before. Her eyes were the kind of pale blue that gave her the look of someone forever haunted, set against her milky skin.            

      Often, I would see her standing at a dark curb in the sketchier areas of downtown, invisible in the hustle and bustle of the city. Even under the focus of billions of multicolored fluorescent lights that glared back at her from countless dirty buildings, cars and shops, she somehow always managed to remain almost completely unseen.           

      Not that that was her intention.            

      I never once saw her dressed in anything that reached past her calves. Tonight I moved one step closer, and from where I stood I could make out that she wore yesterday's ultra short jean skirt that just barely covered the necessities. With it she sported a skimpy low-cut tee, silver bangles that covered the length of her left arm from wrist to elbow, and a thoroughly stuffed turquoise beaded purse that hung limply from the crook of the same left hand- freeing up her right one to bring a cigarette to her lips, from which she now took long, slow drags. She seemed to be trying her best to tap into what little strength she had left in her to give off the impression of being totally relaxed; slouching her shoulders and leaning against a rusty iron pole that held up an old dead-end sign. But I could tell that really she was feeling the exact opposite, from the stiffness in her legs that gave away her exhaustion as well as her lips which remained tightly pursed save when they parted in desperate thirst for the calming effects of smoking a cigarette every few seconds. She appeared to have another seemingly frustrating habit as she stood there alone; every few minutes she tended to whip her head suddenly in my direction. Perhaps she was getting the feeling that she was being watched... But after a few seconds of casting her glance around through the cold night air, sometimes even nervously starting forward towards me, she found nothing and now returned to staring into nothingness.           

      Finally, a man advanced forward, his silhouette furtively materializing from the shadowy alleyway a block down the street. He walked slowly towards her, somewhat nervously. Her eyes were on him every step of the way, yet she made no move whatsoever to acknowledge his presence. As always, when he was mere feet away she stuck out her arm, cigarette still suspended between her forefingers, and opened and closed her hand. The international gesture for where is my money. When the transaction was complete, she took the cash and hastily shoved it into her turquoise purse, and then lead the way into the back parking lot for some privacy to get the job done. Yet for some reason, she would never make eye contact with her suitors. I never once saw her make the slightest effort to get to know the men who approached her. It had always been strictly about money, about getting the job done, and then going on her way. But this time as I saw her tired feet suddenly trip in her exhaustion and her frail body begin to fall forward, for the first time ever I watched her eyes widen in genuine feeling when they met the eyes of the man who jerked forward to catch her gently in his arms. What was that feeling that I glimpsed? Uncertainty? Anger?

      Fear?            

       What ever it was, she wasn't used to this. No man had ever done anything for her before. It was never about her. They only used her to satisfy their own selfish hunger. It was only ever supposed to be strictly about business. She had always been nothing more than an object to her customers, something they would pay for and then have their way with for an allotted amount of time. More often than not, they were rough with her; sometimes just shoving her around to feed their egos, at other times abusing her. She hated them all. But this life was all she knew, and she would never be free of it until the day she died.           

      "What are you doing?"            

      "What? Well- you tripped, so I thought I'd help-" he replied, looking alarmed at her livid face. He didn't realize that he was still holding on to her arm.           

      "Let go!"           

      "What? Oh, okay- HEY!" The man exclaimed as she twisted painfully out of his grip, grabbed her fallen purse, got to her feet and hurtled away towards the street. "HEY, LADY I PAID YOU, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH…-?!"

      But she continued to run, her two-inch heels clattering loudly against the pavement as she sprinted to the other side of the street, forcing a number of cars to screech to a stop and honk angrily at her. Bums lying drunken on the curbs whistled as she fled past. At one point she stopped suddenly, grabbing hold of a street lamp with one hand and her stomach with the other, trying to recapture her breath. At the same second behind her she heard even more wheels screeching, this time far worse than before. She whirled around, realizing the man must have come after her. She turned just in time to watch him run onto the street, feet away from her. She ran at him and pushed him roughly aside. More crashes ensued. From my spot a few feet away from her myself, I watched as her body was thrown, then crumpled to the ground.

      

Finally, I stood over her, and her bloodied face looked up at mine for the first time, realization hitting her that she was inches away from Death. Our faces were now closer than ever before, and I watched her eyes widen as she teared up in her utter fear and despair. I could almost see her entire life flashing before her, reflected in those horror-struck eyes. But after a few moments of staring down at her hands, her head lifted again and I found myself once more fixed with the same defiant glare I knew so well. Even as I claimed her soul she flashed me a glossy smile and closed her eyes forever, a rivulet of blood trickling from the corner of her lips.