Squandering Last Hope
Black gaps had formed where teeth had fallen out, etched scars from the burdens of having two (proverbial) left feet, spirailing wirey hair sprouting in tufts and replacing the handfuls clumping the bathroom sink, welts where her herpes had flared up in a continuing painful cycle.
To be beautiful... and have everything that a modern day concubine would never have.
Of course it was generous to use the preferable word "concubine" as she would have only dreamed to belong to someone.
Instead she was declared a "ho". Belonging to the world. Always with an "open for inspection" sign over her forhead.
A laughable notion, although in all, seemingly basic human requirements.
Yet in the modern world, sex was a basic human requirement.
At least for men.
Appropriated as the reason why priests have found they can't help themselves around young boys.
If sex was a need, she'd had her fill a hundred times over, somehow less satisfied every time.
A groping, thirsting, blind desire...
Heaving, perspiring, pulsating...
Ugliness where there should be beauty.
Gagging, staining, bawling...
With lip-stick smears, heavy eyes and rough bruises reflecting in the dank basin; she gurgled on the tiles of the bathroom, huddled over the toilet bowl, her soul torn into millions of tiny fragments and her spirit parched and stale. Blaming everyone but herself.
Her pitiable life story swum around in empty cavities of her internal septic tank, weaving throughout the befouled excretment of her memory banks. A virus, a parasite eating away at every last disgusting morsel of her mind.
Destitute and squalid; she stank of urine, burbon and other various toxins and poisons which were clogging up her arteries, while sitting in a tepid pool of her own filth.
She never asked for money as an adequate exchange for sex, as the feeling of desire in itself was enough repayment.
Being wanted was almost as good as being beautiful.
Even though, it had never occured to her that to them, she was nothing more than a vacant opening.
Tenants coming in to explore for only minutes at a time, leaving their mark and then moving on again - as if they were typifying the common behavior of a variety of birds and mammals using a woodpeckers home for as long as it suited them, then moving on to greener pastures or warmer weather.
Nevertheless, it was nice to feel desired.
A demented kind of beauty.
Her life story stopped and then rewound. The only time she could remember hearing those words, directed at her.
"The Lord who searches the people's hearts can see your beauty."
It was a night of scornful hope, stumbling into a late night church service and being unwillingly accepted into welcoming arms.
Jesus, you can make me beautiful.
I believe in you Jesus...
Surely this day, you will be with me in paradise.
I am restored by You. She clung to that last thought like a rodent holding a scrap of discarded chicken meat for dear life.
In heaven I will be beautiful in Christ.
And then she breathed her last, giving up her soul to perhaps the only living One who could ever find her beautiful.
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