The Monologue (Part 3 Finale)

Business was going well since most of the customers were introduced by my clients, or just clients. I still can't get over the fact that these men that I used to wring for cash have been one of the best things that happened to me. I guess the world does work in mysterious ways after all.

Over the years, I've been intimate with men, women, but having never had a role model for female, since my mother is just a regular drunken Stepford wife from hell, nor a male one, since my dad is a materialistic-prick, all hope is lost when things tends to get serious every time. I'd push them away. Yes, but then there's one, that only one, which took me two chapters to pave the way to.

A client, cliche I know, but how would I get to know someone well being in this line of business? Let's call him Mr. H, who is unlike most of them. Most of them have been quite open to me to some degree, like a courtesan from the past, they'd tell me the things that they wouldn't normally tell or discuss with their allies or wives/girlfriends. But H is different in the sense that he would not speak anything of himself, but ask me of myself.

He'd notice my facial changes, my hair, my movements. He made me feel like a person, a woman. Knowing that I'm never a materialist, he'd never buy me anything other than paying for the right amount for what he asked for. He's also the only client that I was working for at that time, paid me as he did, money to me was never the issue.

At the same time, however, my kind of existence is actually very lonely, since I cannot relate to anyone except for the social outcasts. So every now and then, I'd still tread the skirts of the town, keeping a group of 'friends', who would hang in a rented room in the lower part of the city to escape from whatever reality that we've been through.

One night, after having a fight with H, I got horrendously drunk and drugged up till I passed out somewhere. I was so angry at mostly myself for having been so stupid to let someone in and being possessed with possessiveness and jealousy. Also, I was so pissed off at the fact that he was unable to let me in on anything about him, even after all these years.

When I awoke, under the sheets, I'd realized that I had been raped. How ironic it was to be bitch slapped by reality like this. There's no way of knowing who did it since all drug users and drunks are just straight-out liars anyway, and going to the police would also be out of the question. So the only logical thing to do was just to make it go away by myself.

The next thing I knew I was seeing myself bleeding into the drain. After that, I cleaned myself up, and swore that this bitch is closed for business.