The rise of the moon is my cue. I step outside, and the cold air instantly presses in on me from every direction, its uncaring touch pushing me briskly along. The street is lonely—I am one of its few companions.

            I walk with purposeful strides, my arms wrapped tightly around my body to muster some form of warmth. My purpose in wandering through the bleak shadows requires a minimal dress code, no matter what the season. Now, in the heart of winter, it’s all the more miserable.

            For a moment as I walk, I’m struck with self-pity. I’m frozen—not by the cold, but by the sudden pang of doubt. 

            Why should I not be sleeping soundly now with the rest of the world? Why do I deny myself happiness in exchange for misery and humiliation? I’ve justified it all this time—through all my tears—by saying it was because of love.

            I’m a worn-out, used rag doll unlike any other, for I have a heart. And I open it up far too easily and love all too blindly.

            Turning a corner, the darkness grows. It envelops me and ushers me into a god-forsaken underworld, rampant with all the immorality that has stricken the world. It is a disease and I carry it. I spread it.

            I want to be a businesswoman, you know—strong, independent, and free-willed. I used to sell lemonade or cookies or old toys on the corner of my street. The lemonade was usually bitter, the cookies usually burnt, and the toys were never worth a penny—but people bought them anyway. My cute face was all the marketing I needed.

            So that trend continues only—only now it’s far different. I sell my pride, my body, and my heart to the highest bidder.

            Why? I told you—because of love.

            Daddy needs my support. He tells me that it’ll be okay, that if no one else does, he’ll always love me. Every time I come home he tells me that I’m beautiful, even though my mascara is running and my eyes are puffy and red. He’s happiest when I hand him the night’s catch, and in return he buys me “pretty things, for an even prettier girl.”

            And so I stand in my usual spot, and, as if summoned by my arrival, a car pulls up and a window rolls down. It’s always the same—nervous eyes peer out at me, and a pair of lips part greedily. By day, they’re probably upstanding citizens. By night, they’re the scum of the earth—proud owners of beautiful porcelain dolls. But when they leave, they throw them away. They break. And from the shards, a dirty rag doll emerges. Used, confused, abused.

            When I climb inside the posh, leather fitted car I can feel eyes, like hands, scouring my body. We make an exchange—money for pleasure.

            And they never care when I timidly whisper, “I’m only seventeen.”