Author's Notes: Ahem... Just one of my many, many original stories, many of which mercifully not published... :P Yeah... I didn't really want to write this in first person, but appearantly my brain insists, so bear with me. :) At the rate I'm churning out chapters on this thing, I s'pose I should have chapter three ready in a week, or maybe sooner. Unlike some of my fanfics. D'oh... :/ Anyway!
Warning: References to sex and incest. And stuff. Hn.
All in all, I think innocence is highly overrated.
She paused. Leant back in her chair and thoughtfully chewed on the ragged quill. It was wrong, it was all wrong. She leant forward once more.
All in all, society takes its presumed virginity far too seriously.
She sighed in frustration and threw the quill down, blue eyes sparking. "Forget it," she murmured. It was true, too. Girls like her were shunned, hated. Why shouldn't they be? "After all," she hissed bitterly, "I'm just a whore!" But no, she needed to write this story; she had to rid her mind of it.
Sighing, more gently this time, she picked up the quill and started writing.
Sometimes... Sometimes I wish I was still an innocent...
I don't know when that thought first popped up in my head. But I do know whenever it would reappear.
It would be at night, after I'd have served another customer, and he would be snoring on the bed. I would get up, look in the mirror, look at wide brown eyes, at the short, upturned nose, at the full lips. The face of a child, of an innocent. I hated that face.
I hated how it would stare back at me with its wide-eyed, guiltless expression, begging the question, "You filthy whore, what are you doing!?" And I'd never have an answer.
I hated how it made the other girls whisper behind my back, always because I were not like them. A woman with the innocent face of a child had no place in Madame Lilja's brothel.
And I especially hated how men would fondle my face, and kiss it, at first, with reverence, only to later force their filthy passion on it, moaning their daughters' names.
I remember the night... before... I was sitting in front of my mirror again, hating my face, and searching just the least bit of the old me in those features; the girl who'd come to the capitol, full of hope. I couldn't find it. Behind me, master Eien the merchant, was snoring loudly, the sound like a death rattle in his bulbous throat. The rain was pattering insistently against the panes, and all that illuminated my face was a single candle, making my pretty, innocent face seem like a ghostly apparition in the mirror.
This is not how it was supposed to be, I remember thinking. I was supposed to earn my living, sewing dresses for the fine ladies, and then be praised to high heavens when they saw them. My eyes went misty, and I quickly blinked the tears away. The first day I sold my body I'd wept like a beaten child. Madame slapped me and told me to get myself together. "You're a whore, not a lady. You can't afford to cry," she snapped in that cold, measured voice. So I told myself that I'd never cry again.
But it was hard, looking at my angel face, and not crying for what lay behind it.
Master Eien stirred behind me, grunting as he awoke. "Esha?" he snivelled drowsily.
My name was not Esha, but none the less I turned with an ingratiating smile. "Yes, daddy?"
He laughed affectionately, giving me an appraising look. I had to stop myself from retching. "What's your real name, girl?"
"Mijia, master," I answered, still holding on to my frozen smile.
"Pretty girl, pretty girl," the merchant mused. "Well, then? I paid for the whole night; surely you'll not cheat me?"
I rose to give my body to him once more, always maintaining my smile.
I would never cry, never let tears run down my cheeks. But inside... Inside I was sobbing.