Title: Working Life Like a Burlesque Show
Writer: raven_tiger/May Elizabeth
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any relation to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. My mind just goes to a really dark place sometimes.
Genre: Fiction: short story.
Word Count: 601
Beta: mystressxoxo, thank you for your betating skills on a really short notice.
For: brigits_flame (a writing competition on LJ).
Warnings: Death/murder; dubious-consent; under-age prostitution; minor; hints to drug abuse and child abuse; language.
A.N: The song Let the Record Show by Emilie Autumn were my muses for this fiction. I also got the title from that song. The narrator is a 16 year-old drug addicted runaway. This was pretty tough for me to write but I had to write it to tell the story that not many can tell.
"I'm paying with my life, I'm paying with my life, my life, my life, so let the record show, that you murdered me in your coldest blood with your own two hands, don't think no one understands it happens everyday." Let the Record Show Emilie Autumn
"Working life like a burlesque show, get them off and they'll let you go. Why did I turn to you? I only turned out to be one more girl you slew. And now I'll bump my grind for another, lose my mind in another. Why? Why? Why? Why? I only gave you the chance to prove the rumours true." Let the Record Show Emilie Autumn
"If I'm going down then I'm going down good. If I'm going down then I'm going down clean. If I'm going down then I'm going, the prettiest wretched whore you've ever seen." Let the Record Show Emilie Autumn
I walk towards your black, beat-up van. You roll down your window. You remind me of my father: greying black hair, and slight wrinkling around brown eyes. Your eyes display no emotions. Your eyes drift up my body, appraising me: messy brown hair, pale skin, and dark circles under my ice blue eyes. Your eyes further judge my waif-thin, cocaine-fueled body clad in black jeans and a black sweatshirt. It is, after all, winter.
The icy wind chills me, and I shiver. My fingers are almost frozen stiff, and all I care about is my next high. You're my last john tonight 'cause I can pay for it now. When I'm high, I forget what I ran from, the cold no longer hits me, and I'm no longer hungry. I am safe for the first time in my life.
You nod at me – I will do. Your approval sickens me. "How much for a fuck?"
I open the passenger side door and get in. Silence permeates the air. My hands will not stop shaking. All I can do is stare at my hands; my nails are bitten down to the skin, and I wonder if I should get some mittens somehow. Maybe I should see one more john tonight so I could get some food and mittens. Yes, just one more.
You park the van on a quiet street. I try to steady my hands and focus on my breathing, trying to mentally prepare myself; it won't last long.
"Go to the backseat."
You direct me, and I know you're running this show. I stumble to the seat. I just want this done and over with.
You sit next to me and give me a crooked smile that doesn't reach your eyes. I shiver and try not to show my fear. I know you sense it; it must have a cloying, decaying scent to it.
I hear the rasp of your zipper. I adeptly remove my pants and my musty underwear. I sit next to you and take your flaccid penis in my right hand as I stare out the windshield. I focus on the falling snow outside to ignore the soft cock stiffening in my hand.
You push me down against the seat and roughly penetrate me. The familiar dull pain rips through my body like a chainsaw. I close my eyes. I think of the ecstasy of the high, the reward I will receive after you're through with me. Tonight, though, this does nothing for me. I grimace at the way you pound into me. I don't move against or try to escape from you. I just lie there beneath you and take it. This is nothing new for me.
I make not a sound, though I hear your sickening grunts of pleasure. Your rough hands close tightly around my throat and squeeze hard. My eyes fly open, and the instinct to survive kicks in. I scream out "NO!" The sound comes out gurgled to my ears as I claw at your hands and your face. I use my legs and hips to try and throw you off of me, but you're too powerful. I can tell by your maniacal eyes that you love it when they fight. I'm fucked.
I start to cry, "Please, please…" though I can barely hear my own words, and tears that I didn't know I had are soaking my face now. It's getting harder to breathe as your viselike grip on my throat tightens. I struggle to the very end as my world slowly fades to black.
"Momma, is that you?"