Just Another Day

short stories collection - a compilation of my short stories.

Summary

He hit me, once again I fell to the ground.
“You bitch, you fucking told him didn’t you?”
“I didn’t tell . . .”
He struck me again and my cheek began to bleed.


In truth, this is a prequel to Broken and foreshadows the violence and unhappy ending of that tale. This one is shorter, but no more bittersweet.

He hit me, once again I fell to the ground.

“You bitch, you fucking told him didn’t you?”

“I didn’t tell . . .”

He struck me again and my cheek began to bleed.

“Don’t you lie to me you prick, I know what you did, I saw you tell him something.”

“I didn’t tell him anything, he didn’t even ask any questions.”

“He doesn’t need to ask questions to get answers you whore.”

He kicked me in the ribs and I gave a yelp. He stared at me till I shut up, then proceeded to walk out of the room. I doubled over on the broken mattress in the corner and I cried the rest of the night.

I woke up the next morning in the cold cellar, a plush bed for the customers sat in the corner, my dirt covered bed placed on the opposite side. It wasn’t my fault, my mother was poor and my father had lost a leg due to an “accident” at work. I had tried to kill myself, to leave this miserable existence. I didn’t care if my family starved, at least I wouldn’t have to go through hell every night.

“Hey bitch, what are you sitting around fo’, there are customers waiting, hurry up.”

I began to get dressed, the wisp of air that were supposed to clothe me nearly falling off, the cross around my neck was bent, the diamonds on the chain having long fallen off. There were customers, always customers in this hell hole: criminals, pimps, poor men, rich men and everything in between. I serviced them every day, never did I enjoy it, legal rape was what it was. The police were in on the gig also, sometimes even they would come in for the night.

“Hey bitch, you in there, tell him nights over, we’re closin’.”

“Fuck off, he’ll leave when he’s done.”

So later that night he beat me again, trying to find out what I told the man. I continued to tell him the truth, that I hadn’t told the man anything, but he didn’t believe me.

“Let me get this straight bitch, the man walks in and talks to you–in private–for thirty minutes and you tell him nothin’?”

“Yes, and. . .”

“I didn’t ask you to answer bitch, I already know your lying to me.”

“But, I’m serious, I told him nothing.”

“Just like OJ didn’t kill his wife right? I’m done with you: you don’t make me enough money; the customers complain about your constant whining; and you and your illness costing me a pretty penny. Your not a profitable venture like them other girls, I’m gonna have to cut my loses.”

“So what, your going to sell me?”

“No bitch, that would be unkind to whoever gets you next, I’m going to make a killing though.”

“A killing?”

“Off of you and your death: headlines, I own the papers, remember bitch; police money, insurance, everything.”

“But, you can’t. . .”

I felt a sharp pain and the world suddenly started to fade from view. I looked at him, I was sure he’d been lying, ten years for nothing! Nothing! He didn’t care, he’s running a business and I wasn’t making enough for him, but he’d found other uses for me, like he does for everything else. To bad I lied to him and had told the investigator everything, the again, he’s probably paid the investigator off anyway, damn prick.

-biafra
bahanonu [at] alum.mit.edu

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©2006-2017 | biafra ahanonu | updated 12 december 2017
biafra ahanonu