The fermented smell of old books. It lingered in the small nook of my bedroom corner. I didn't have many books, but enough to keep me busy on a quiet, rainy weekend to myself. A piece of me wanted to pick one up and give it a read, but I was too busy to even dare.
He was over, consuming my attention like a child. Pulling my hair, hugging my waist, and calling my name. I was good at what I did, but a lot of nights I eventually ended up in tears or being left for a wife or a second date. Too much alcohol can lead to many adventurous things... In the long run it paid off. I was able to pay my bills and put food on the table.
Those lonely nights are gone now. I have a stable job, steady income, and a new life. In a new city, I have made a name for myself; and it's not a slut, or a whore... I'm a writer- a journalist to be exact, and I love my job.
j i j i v i s h a
A will to live.
My life before this wasn't puppies and Christmas. Life as a hooker was hard. PTSD soon followed as I settled down in Seattle. Time's when I was drugged, raped, cut, and even shot. I am still in debt from all of my hospital treatment, but I'm working on it. I'm healing. Mentally and physically. Soon, I will be past this. Hopefully I can find someone to make it disappear, and distract me like the man in my bedroom did. To give me a will to live.