Deadly Beautiful. by Vivian Vargas (little readers .txt) 📖

an old used car in a recycling center. The other girls in here with me mostly paid no notice to me, but I caught a few of them eyeing hungrily, as though they were famished for days and I’m fresh meat. I was scared more than anything else in my life, scared of this place, and the people that was thrown in itTheir eyes were like stone-cold marbles in merciless statues. They mirrored all the horrible things they’ve done. Milky eyes filmed over with the hardships of life. They were people like me, and I wondered if my eyes were like that –dull and insensible. I could say that I was once a lively lass. But like I said before, everything had just gone down the drain like a nice hard turd in a toilet.
I had a sickening feeling those other girls were going to beat me up. It happened all the time in movies and TV shows. Someone gets picked up by the police for doing something bad, gets thrown in the slammer. I would be the timid one, (I am the timid one, I’m fucking scared shitless) the one who tries desperately not to make eye contact with anybody. Then some tough bitch decides to pick a fight. If she’s a bloody dyke then maybe something worse would happen to me. But horrible things happened to me before. I was made to be someone’s puppet. Slave. Punching bag. Whatever tickles your peach.
I am only in this place because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Bullshit, that little annoying voice said in my head. I know what I was doing. I should have not let the Lady tempt me. But she was calling my sweet name with her siren’s song. Just one more hit. And then another. The need for it made me hungry. It made my blood ravenous for some more of it. I will melt all your problems away, She said tauntingly, the promise of the sweet white sugar underneath my nose. The spoon and fire. The needle. Those were my tools for survival. I wanted to pop my skin. I wanted to get high. I would have done anything in the fucking world to forget. To fill my head with euphoria, starting with my veins. Rushing up …up, up! to my head. Lean my head back and ride the tide until eventually the heroin shuts down and shuts up whatever’s left of my brain.
Desperate people do desperately stupid things. I should have known that bastard Lorenzo was a cop. I was always fishy about that man and damn it I should have listened to my instincts. Even more so, I should have not tasseled him the way I did. Hooking my bare legs over his, offering more than money (that I didn’t have). What in the bloody fuck was I thinking? When he flashed his Scotland Yard’s badge, it was as though I couldn’t even see the shiny gold emblem, clearly spelling trouble. All that seemed to register to me at the moment was the fact that it wasn’t a little plastic baggie filled with crumbly white stuff or solid black rock, let alone that it was a Scotland Yard badge. My heroin hungry brain actually took a while to figure out what was happening. It felt like a dream almost, and everything solid in front of me was swirling, like smoke. I couldn’t properly recollect my thoughts. I was lost in my own head for that terrible second. I wasn’t getting a hit. The Lady turned her back on me, that fucking bitch. Yeah she was supposedly going to drown away all of my problems –she was more like feeding them to me with her own hand. If I can bite the hand that feeds me, I would. Only problem was, it was me being bitten.
What did I do wrong? I thought like a pathetic wimp. When Lorenzo yanked my hands behind my back as gently as he could and handcuffed me, it hit me. It really hit me, what was happening to me. I have known that I wasn’t going to get any heroin, but now it hit me that I was going to jail. To jail. I started crying, begging him to let me go. I even offered to suck his dick if he took the handcuffs off me. But when he shoved me in his unmarked police car, his face was full of pity. I knew he wasn’t going to let me go. I knew he wasn’t going to change his mind. He was just doing his job, doing his best to get another lowlife whore like me out of the streets.
“Sorry Whitney, darling. It’s for your own good you know.” He told me, shrugging. And from there he got in his car and drove me to the correction facility, trapping me with the hungry wolves.
I did not stop crying. I don’t think I ever cried as much as I did that day in my whole life.

****
I had no one to bail me out. I was sixteen and practically homeless, living with my pimp, George, in a dingy roach infested flat. At night I went out to the street and did tricks for money, booze and drugs. I took in anybody that would give me the time of day. Sex was nothing. I can have sex any day, so why not get paid for it? I learned to tune it out –let those sick bastards do what they want to me, hoping the entire time that it would be over quickly. Thankfully, most of the time it is. Sex was just a vocation. I made pretty good money, but most of it regretfully went up my arm, rushing into my body and feeling like a million little fingers gently massaging me from the inside out…
The Scotland Yard knew I was a prostitute because Lorenzo told them I was offering sexual favors for the heroin and also using them to bribe him to let me go. Boo freaking hoo, another charge on my fucked up juvenile record. They asked me if I had a pimp; I told them about George. Tall, gangly, kind-of-cute George –who seemed so nice and fresh on the outside unless you just happened to get under his skin and that, could be for any reason at all. George was wicked, inside and out, and stupid me didn’t realize what he was, what he had the potential of becoming once he removed his mask. I didn’t mind ratting on him, mainly because he treated me like shit. He was forever striking me, hurting me both physically and emotionally, and breaking down the obscure wall of stone I have built over my frozen heart little by little as though it was no effort at all. All George had to do was look at me to have his way with me, and then snap his fingers so that I can let someone else had their way with me. It was the relationship we had, and I was afraid that I was never going to get out of it. But they pressed charges on him as far as I know. Maybe they even locked them up, and if they did, it would sure as hell make my day. George out of my life and out of my mind? I would have given anything for that, even if I ruined his lovely money making world, one where I was definitely not the only stupid lass that had the misfortune to cross paths with him. I told them everything in hopes I would get out of this damn place. I made it seem like I was the victim.
I ran away from home because my mother was abusive and her boyfriend was a fucking creep, which was the truth. Generally. Frankly, my mother never really hit me. She just did not care for me, at all. When I would fall down and hurt myself as a child, she never ran to me, picked me up and kissed my boo boo so that I can feel better. Whenever I brought home a good report card she took a mere glance at it and then threw it away. She never saved the cute little pictures I drew for her, or even remembered to feed me at times. Whenever I did something bad she didn’t even thought of punishing me. Maybe if I was taught some fucking discipline, some love, I would have turned out better, but she never learned how to be a mother. Maybe it was because she got knocked up around my age. Being a teenage mother can sometimes keep you frozen in your adolescents for the rest of your life. I wouldn’t really know and I couldn’t prove that for the life of me; it’s just a theory. And her boyfriend Ralph –oh, I wasn’t lying about that. He was a weedy, filthy bloke that constantly smelled of meth and beer and sweat. I remember his beady little eyes always following me when I walked around, full of wicked lust. I swear they were attached with needles or something because I always felt them on my ass everywhere I moved, everywhere I turned. Did my mother not notice that he was a sick and twisted? No. Double N-O. But the greasy fuck never had to balls to really do what I knew he always wanted to do to me.
I mean, once he tried. My mother went off to work and when I got home from school, he asked me if I could fix him something to eat. I complied because I was being nice. I was making him grilled cheese and refried beans when he came in to kitchen with his pink, stubby dick out of his fly. I remember he said with a sickening, timid leer, “How bought I fix you something to eat too?”
I stared at his ugly penis with disdain. A lot of things ran through my mind, fear infecting it the most. Damn, was this really happening to me? Did I look like a poster child of teenage sexual abuse? Should I run and call the cops? Hurt him really bad? Yell at him till I made him feel like shit and possibly making him think twice about dreaming of screwing the shit out of me? I hoped that he didn’t decide to rape me or anything like that. I didn’t need that shit.
“Really Ralph?” I commented, rolling my eyes (I tried to look brave and unafraid, but really my heart was beating like a rabbits). I took the pot of hot refried beans and threw it at him. He bellowed in pain as the spicy sauce stung his eyes and the heavy pot gave him a nice lump in the head. But I was out that door before he completely wiped the bean sauce from his face.
I was fed up then. I decided to leave. Who would miss me? My mother is in her own self-centered fantasy land and I doubt she will come out. I just wounded Ralph’s ego; he’ll find some other sweet-assed lass to hound after. I had no other legitimate family out there; I was a lone rat in this world now, and I didn’t want to rely on friends. I didn’t have any real friends anyway.

***
I was just wandering the streets of Cumbernauld, hitting bar after bar and getting shit drunk, but I returned home later on at night. My overweight loser of a mother was there though, chain smoking and watching something on the boob tube. She didn’t notice that I was drunk. She didn’t even bother looking up when I got in the house. Thankfully, Ralph was no where to be seen, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my mother even cared