(We were asked to write a short story for our Humanities II class. Here's mine :)
You’ve
probably heard a lot of stories like mine. Yes, pictured in popular movies, TV
shows, books, a story like mine is not uncommon. It has always been a question
whether it is to be told. But I believe that my story, although not pleasant
shouldn't be left unheard. My name is
Ella. Beautiful name, no? My mother told me that I was named after Cinderella. I
have always dreamt of being Cinderella. After suffering under her step mother
and step sisters, she has somehow escaped that life, swept away from her feet by
a handsome prince that loves her. All she has to do was become a beautiful
princess. I've been told by my clients, patrons and workmates that I am
beautiful. With long black hair that tapers just above my waist, huge brown
eyes, slightly plump lips, a heart shaped face and a slim body. But no, I don’t
see myself as beautiful. All I see when
I look in the mirror is a girl, too young, forced to see the world in a
different light, robbed of her childhood, robbed of emotions, somehow incapable
of feeling. Yes, all I see when I look in the mirror is a machine, set only to
survive.
Let
me take you back. My mother has always been conservative, born in a rich
family, raised by my strict grandmother. My grandmother has been active in the
service of her church, someone people look up to and ask for advices. She claims
to be holy and all that, but most often than not, she is hateful to all those
people who doesn’t share the same values or see the world in a different way. I’ve
always wondered why or how or what my mother saw in my father that made her
fall in love with him. You see, my father was a bastard, a drunkard, obviously
someone with no direction in life. They were frantically in love, they ran away
and as was foreseen, my mother became pregnant. My mother tried to ask help,
she returned home but my grandmother, believing that my mother’s sin was too
great, unforgivable and that God has already cursed them, sent her away. My
father, filled with so much sweet words at that time, promised my mother that they
will live a good life. I pity my mother. She’s just too sweet and innocent. She
never knew what would happen next and with no one to hold on to; she put all
her hopes in my father, drowning in disappointment.
Disappointment
perhaps is too mild to describe what my mother’s been put up to. My mother, a
quiet woman, raised me up with the same values she was raised with but with
less strictness. As I was growing up, all I saw in my mother is a patient and
caring woman who did nothing but put up with my father’s beating, rants,
drinking and other shamelessness. I was
10 years old at that time when my father first brought his concubine home. My
mother just kept quiet and I knew that she was silently cursing them. My mother would cry every time my father
touched her knowing he touched another woman. But no, it didn’t stop there. He
continued beating her to a pulp then raping her until she can no longer walk. One night, I awoke early. It was pretty unusual for me to be awake at that time and unusual for my mother to be asleep at that time. It was the night before that my father's beatings were the worst and my mother was bleeding and my father refused to bring her to the hospital. I went to her room to cuddle with her, to comfort her somehow but to my horror, she was no longer breathing.
I had no problem with
the woman at first because she was actually nice to me. None of those cruel
step mother things in fairy tales. But after I somehow correlated her presence with my mother's death, hatred grew on me, clung to me and bore a hole at my chest. I
wanted to kill her. I started going out with friends to divert my attention and
probably get my father’s attention. My father probably thought that I was going
through a teenage rebellion phase. I wanted to run away. My boyfriend at that
time, Leonard, a year older than me convinced me it was the right thing to do.
We planned to but I didn’t have the strength to do so. So I vented out my anger
on the “new wife” as our neighbors call her. One night, I went home late. The
new wife got mad at me, scolded me for being so irresponsible. I laughed at
her. What gives her the right to talk to me like that, she wasn’t my mother.
She killed my mother. I laughed at the irony. And then my father came home.
Drunk, as usual. Then he started beating the shit out of us. Crazy nights like
that continued until the new wife, not so new by this time, decided to leave us
for good.
I stopped schooling
and I was left with my no good father. Leonard was forbidden by his parents to
meet up with me because of my father’s reputation. But sometimes, he would
still visit me secretly and we’d spend the day together whenever my father was
not around. I never actually had someone
like Leonard before: Someone who finally makes me happy, someone who makes me
feel secured, someone who doesn’t care about what other people say about me and
us and someone who loves me. I was ready to give up everything for him, I knew,
well I hoped that he was also ready to give up everything for me. I was happy
until my father learned about our relationship. He threatened him. We were
afraid. He promised he’ll be back for me.
That night after my
father knew about our relationship, he visited my room. He told me I was
beautiful, how much I looked like my mother and how much he loves me. He said
he loves me very much and that it would pain him if I had gone with Leonard. It
was the first time he said those kinds of things to me. I was happy. I thought
that this would change everything. But then he touched my breast and starts
kissing me. He started touching me in a place where only my fingers have
touched. I was not wrong when I thought that it would change everything. The
touching continued and I began to protest. I tried to bat away his arms but I
couldn’t, he still continued. He starts stripping my clothes and unzipping his
trousers. I couldn’t fight him off. I started screaming but he was just too
strong. I was in so much pain that night that I tried killing myself several
hundreds of time, each time failing. Believe me I tried, slashing my wrists til
no space was not covered in scars, starving myself, overdosing, no. It just
didn’t work. I was not wrong when I thought that it would change everything. He
visits my room every other night or so. At first it was painful, humiliating
even, but somehow, I just found myself disconnected from my body every time he
uses me for pleasure. It’s been two years. I’ve been living in hell for two
years. Still no sign of my prince charming.
The drunken nights
continued. I was starting to lose hope. I had no one to cling on to and I just
don’t know where to go. One night, after he was finished with me, I went
outside and ran as fast as I could. I ran and ran and ran and ran and ran until
I don’t know where I was. I had no resources, I had no one to cling to and I
just didn’t know where to go. But somehow,
it felt better because I was away from that pig who treated me like a toy. The
night went on and I found bits of card board to rest my head on. I started
scavenging for food, I started begging. There were lucky days when I will find
a half-eaten burger on the trash can or perhaps, some lady would hand me 50
pesos equivalent to a day’s food.
One day, I met Mama
Rose. Mama Rose was a short woman, probably in her late 50s or early 60s but
still very beautiful. She offered me a job because she believed I was pretty
enough. I was practically willing to do everything at that time to get decent
clothes, shelter and food. Mama Rose gave me that. She gave me what I needed;
she helped me become beautiful and trained me for the job. Mama Rose has been
in the trade for long and she decided to build her own bar. You could probably
guess what that job is by now. Yes. I am a prostitute. I know it’s something I
shouldn’t be proud of, but I was getting what I needed so I couldn’t complain.
Various men of all ages went in line to have a taste of me. Rich men, business
men, average men, but never poor men, handsome, ugly, old, young, fat, thin,
they all wanted to have me. All because I was new and beautiful. I was the new
toy of the house. Mama Rose treated me like a commodity but I couldn’t
complain. Many of these men were actually good in bed and many of them really
take time to pleasure me as I do, them. The disassociation I feel whenever they
use my body was still there but there was pleasure. It was addictive. Many of
these men gave me more than what I could have asked for. Money, money and more
money, jewelry, exotic fruits, flowers, stuff toys, chocolates, a car and even
a villa, all these were given to me just to prove the man’s affection. I had
everything I wanted. But I was not happy. There was something missing. And all
along I knew what it was. Or rather, who it was.
I started to feel
sick and asked Mama Rose if I could rest for the day. She agreed but I didn’t
get well. It continued for weeks and Mama Rose was starting to worry. Customers
were looking for me. We then consulted the doctor, underwent some tests and
found out that I had AIDS. We were both devastated by this, me, with the degree
of the disease and Mama Rose with the fact that I would have lesser clients.
Mama Rose told the patrons that I had AIDS. True enough, the demand for me
declined. There was this one old man that still asks for me whenever he visits.
I liked this old man. We never really went to action because all he wanted to
do was talk to me. He gives me the feeling that we are old friends, keeps me
relaxed and somehow knows my issues without me even telling him so. I really
didn’t know what he sees in me that makes him come back to me. One day, he
asked me to marry him. He said that he would die soon and all he wanted to have
is a friend to accompany him in the last pages of his life. He knew that I had
nowhere to go to and because of my disease, I couldn’t continue being in this
business. Who am I to refuse? He was a good friend and although I didn’t love
him and I was still waiting for Leonard to come back as he promised, I wouldn’t
mind being a friend to someone who needs me and was there when I needed
someone. It was not love. It was never love. Although it is not quite the same,
no flushed cheeks, heart thumping, blank minds, goofy smiles and the like. Not
quite like the fairy tales I have been dreaming of complete with the prince and
his white horse, and me being the beautiful princess. He keeps me happy. I know
that for him, I am the most beautiful princess, the fairest of them all. And
now as I rest in his arms while on his rocking chair after our afternoon tea,
the ringing of his tenor echoing through the room, as the scent of his
favourite lavender fills the air, I knew that somehow, deep inside, this was
where I was supposed to be.
And it was good enough for me.
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