๐ฟ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐๐๐ ๐ญ๐๐๐๐๐
My name is Lauressa Raine. My psychologist would succinctly sum up my life thusly: "Eve's mother, Lynda, was an absentee mom. Her father, Boyd, was an abusive drunk who took out his frustration from being passed over for promotion on her. With little parental guidance, she was easy prey for bad influences, which would lead her astray. She found herself in sex work and drugs, not knowing another path, even if the signpost pointing to it was right in front of her."
I have lived in Guilfjord my entire life. My father worked in the limestone quarry that built the Crowley Manor during its twilight years. After it closed down, he destroyed his body working in the mines in the mountains to the northwest of town. When he could no longer work in the mines, he worked in the steel mill at the edge of town. My mother consistently worked in the town bakery. But never really climbed the ladder.
My father was drunk every working day of his life. I have a vivid memory from when I was twelve. My father bought me a new laptop a couple of days prior. He came home stinking of whiskey, like fermented piss on his breath, and angry about his job or life in general. He chucked the laptop outside during a rainstorm. The next day, he was pissed because he wasted all that money and blamed me. I needed to be punished. My father was a hands-on sort of man, no belts, no little girl slaps, only fists. I blacked out mid-beating.
I had a severe concussion, but my mom wouldnโt cross him. She would sooner cross a bear. By the time I was nineteen, I had two dozen major concussions. The football's one, not the pussy minor ones. Blacked out and had headaches for days. By the time my headache was waning, my dad would repeat the cycle.
"Its oughta how a young lady should be taught." Heโd say.
He taught me how to take a punch, alright, at twelve. My daddy had a mean right hook. He would catch me on the chin. Lay me out like a corpse. I was black inside, so what was the difference?
There were good times as well. My father would take us to see the Civil War reenactments. My mom would take me for walks in the Guilfjord Civil War Memorial Park or see plays at the Guilfjord Ocean Bay Theatre.
On that fateful day in late August, I was turning tricks in the parkway in a tight, pink low-rise, micro skirt, a lacy bra top, and high stilettos that made walking cumbersome and running impossible. It was the same path my mom and I used to walk. For the record, there were sex workers back then as well. Though crime, sex work included, got so much worse once the quarry and mines shut down. The mill never shut down. It slowed down and laid off half of the town, but never closed permanently.
My dirty blond tresses barely blocked out the sun. My pale blue eye caught the sun, changing the hue to a dark blue.
The park was two blocks over and south of Main Street. The park was roughly a circle divided by a curving one-lane road that was outgrown by modern cars. The park butts up against a large lake on its eastern side. The area was perpetually shaded by oak and elm trees on either side of the parkway that divided the region. You canโt see the mountains or the lake, for that matter. You heard the water splashing over the rustling of leaves. No one can see what youโre doing, which is why itโs often used for shady dealings.
I watched the cars drive down the narrow asphalt road. With every car, my heart shrank. Beads of sweat gathered at the base of my neck.
I wasn't alone. I saw Jenifer Hewitt up the street from me. A blond woman with an abusive husband, too checked out to know she was even here. There was Marcy Campbell, a woman whose deadbeat husband left for cigarettes and never came back. He left her to turn tricks to pay for his two young children. There was Darcy Wilmette, a girl turning tricks her way through college. The only problem was that it never worked. There was Jennifier Heartfelt. She was another woman with a rough upbringing and past trauma. I was more like her. Abusive parents left me destitute of self-worth and with a hole for a man to fill with promises of the moon, but instead sold me false hope and broken dreams.
The poppers of the town, the movers and shakers, came down here. Along with the drug addicts and women with loose clothes and looser morals. The only difference between the poppers and drug addicts was the amount of money they had for their habit.
My eyes instinctively looked down at the track marks up and down my arm. I felt shame creep up inside me like something dark and loathsome crawling out of a grave. It turned my cheeks ruddy and hot. Shame is the candle from which we all burn.
My pimp extraordinaire, heroin dealer, and pseudo boyfriend, Gerard Salazar, was somewhere nearby. Sal was a borish man with a brutish face of sagging, pockmarked skin. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. It made my skin crawl. It was like worms burrowing under my skin. I sighed under my breath. I told myself this was going to be the last time.
I saw a strange man pass me on the other side of the street. The strangely dressed man wore a long-sleeved silk shirt, a brown vest stitched tight at the seams, denim trousers with leather chaps, and a large, wide-brimmed, floppy cowboy hat. I thought he was one of the larper or Civil War reenactors. At any rate, he didn't want anything from me. The stranger tipped his hat and moved on at a brisk pace.
I saw another car coming, took a deep breath, and finally decided to be done with it. It was my time to read the signpost with dawning horror. I had no idea if it was the haze from the smack or if I fucking grew a pair. But then Sal came lumbering out. It was a girlish fantasy to think it would be that easy to escape this life. I hadn't made it three shaky, uneasy steps before he caught me by the arm.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He bellowed. The coldness in his eye belies the fury underneath.
"I'm done Sal. - done with you and done with this life."
I didn't see the backhand coming, but in the back of my mind, I knew it was coming. It was a certainty like the sun rising. I would take a licking. My face stung like a swarm of angry bees, and my right cheek swelled up. "You're only done when I say you're done."
