So tonight, I asked for my friends on FaceBook to type in the first word that came into mind. One of the ones that came up was the word "putain", which means "whore" in French. (As in the profession.) I decided to use it. I thought it would be interesting. So here's a story about a whore from France. Please keep in mind that this was written past midnight. No editing had been done and I just wrote the first thing that came to my head. Hope you enjoy.

14 December 2012

She hated her job. Absolutely hated it. It wasn't her choice to be here. She was low on money, had no other way of income. The government refused to back her and her little brother. Her poor younger brother... At this very moment, she knew she was in a much better situation that he was. Or at least, that's what she tried to tell herself. She always tried to keep her thoughts positive. She told herself that once she had all the money on hand, she would be able to quit this job. She would have to never see this place again. She would never have to see these men's faces again. For now, she had to deal with it. She had to shove aside all of her worries. She had no time to complain about her work. It was the only thing she could find with her qualifications. She had no other way to turn to. She lived in a small one-bedroom apartment, her parents had passed away years ago, and she had no source of transportation. The only way to pay her bills - and her brother's - was through this.

She swallowed nervously, her toes rubbing together as she sat on the bed. She allowed her thoughts to wander, just as she always did. She could still fake anything the men asked her for, whether her mind was there or not. Her thoughts were her escape. They were her comfort. They were the only things that kept her from going insane, from breaking down. They shielded her heart, the heart that took on so much and pushed back when the world tried to shove her around. They guarded her mind and her eyes. In her mind, she was still innocent as a beautiful rose, protected by its sharp thorns yet still in full bloom, unhindered. But there was no way she was truly that in her body. She had lost count of how many 'customers' she had seen just this week alone - and it was only Thursday. That rose of innocence wasn't as beautiful as she previously thought. It had long since been smashed. But she didn't allow herself to think anything of it.

It was what needed to be done, she told herself.

A deep breath filled her lungs and slowly released itself through her nose sprinkled in make-up. Her fingers fiddled at the folds and frills of the red lingerie adorning her figure; the figure that attracted so many to her. Her eyes slid closed. Her thoughts traveled to when she had last seen her brother. The images filled her mind once more, recalling the events as if they were happening right before her. He lay on a hospital bed, his eyes closed. A mask covered his mouth and nose, providing him with the much-needed oxygen. The rhythmic sounds of the heart monitor echoed through the white room. He had been in that room for about two months now. Not once had he opened his eyes. His fingers would give the slightest twitch, his chest would rise and lower evenly, but he would not show any signs of awakening. She knew he wouldn't awaken until the much-needed surgery was complete. But in order to do that, she needed money. The doctors were willing to allow him to stay in the hospital until she gathered the funds needed, but her time was running short. She only had another month before they would be forced to pull the plug.

Her eyes opened once more at the sound of a door opening. Her blue eyes focused on the stranger, her curly brown locks swaying as she turned her head. A pleased, yet secretly forced, smile graced her glossed lips. And so began another night, another night when this young French woman would sell her body. All for the well-being of her younger brother. All of this was so he would have a chance to live. She knew she would never regret her decision, not now, not ever, so long as he lived on.