The first time I saw her I didn't think much of her. She looked like just another dirty street rat, one who was doing the unforgivable- selling her body. Surely there were other ways to get by, but the sinful creature had stooped so low as to become a prostitute. She was unworthy of another thought, except for a derogatory mental sneer.

I was the only son of a wealthy, religious family, come away for a year of schooling at the university in this city, so far from home. I had no sisters, and my father had raised me to look down upon the female gender in its entirety, excepting only my mother, who was to be cared for to the uttermost of my ability. This girl was nothing to me.

She sat on a corner, huddling her self away from the hustle of the people on the sidewalk as I hurried past on the other side of the street. I had places to go, people to see, homework to complete. She was just an inferior wench. Then she looked up. I made the mistake of glancing at her once more. And I was captivated. Her eyes... they were the most beautiful shade of amethyst I had ever seen. I was drawn to her, to those eyes. She was so young, 16 at the most, but her eyes showed such a despondent spirit.

I walked up to her and took out my wallet. I wasn't about to soil myself on her, but perhaps if I simply gave her some money, she would quit this wretched profession. And maybe, just maybe, a smile might reach those sad amethyst eyes.

As if she could read my mind, she said plainly, "Thank you for the offer, sir, but I don't accept charity." Her voice was hoarse, as if she had a cold, or had been crying. She had a nearly monotone way of speaking, that still managed to be one of the most interesting sounds I had ever heard. It was the way I supposed a depressed glacier would have spoken, if it could have spoken at all.

Then she ran a finger though her wet hair fiddling with the end of it, as she fearfully whispered, "I am... trained to work for my money. Could you perhaps- use my services?"

I shook my head. I had been taught to look down on prostitutes, had seen my father berate women for turning to this way of life, and I knew what he would have expected of me now. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her how wrong she was, how no man truly needed her services when there were plenty of nice, honorable women who were willing to marry and do things the righteous and God-fearing way. I wasn't my father. For the first time it struck me how much like him I always tried to be. I didn't even know who I truly was. Still shaking my head, I turned and walked away.