Pretty Object, Maribel Mendez [best fiction books of all time txt] 📗

I was the most pretties woman not a minute ago. Some attention, praise, even a dirty compliment was always enough but now he scurried down on the floor picking up his clothes. The eyes that had once distinguished me with desire and admiration glanced at me with seeming disgust. What qualities I had possessed vanished and turned into this creature that used beauty for gain. I could do nothing but keep my indifference to his growing animosity. I knew what he was thinking. His raised eyebrow, the way he buttoned his shirt in that same somber look that had enveloped his face like a dark shadow, it all spelled it out for me clearer than words. If I looked up to meet his eyes again he would strike me. They tend to think they have that right. I took the mint chocolate from the pillow, pretending to do anything but watch him. I didn’t have to see him to know that his disgust had turned to malice. And somehow I couldn't think of any other group of women that have been looked down on with such contempt. Men wanted to forget us as soon as possible but I chose to remember. I memorized them all to the smallest unpleasant detail.

This one would've had to be one of the most unattractive with skinny harry legs, excess skin, and a face only a mother could love. He adjusted the wedding ring in his finger. I pictured the wife that had to put up with him; perhaps someone he even disgusted over. But at this moment neither of them was repulsive. It was me who always ended up being the sinful degenerate. He failed to realize that perhaps it was me that was considerate in being with him at all. I had the tendency of agreeing to an offer from those whom I called the “disturbed”. The ones that often became violent to relieve their consciousness. The girls and I always made eye contact when they approached us. After a few years in this business we could know everything from a face. They feared them so they ignored but I smiled invitingly and the rest as surely followed. It was always a bit distressing but I’d make double the profit. The difficult part was not the intimacy but the minute after when the atmosphere so suddenly filled with sour awkwardness. I smelled his musky cologne on me; an acrid scent that went well with him. Now that he finished dressing I was left hoping he reached for his wallet next. He circled the bed starring at me like an animal to its prey. I kept my head down like he wanted me to. Because I had been silent and obedient he would not beat me but he had within himself an ill will he meant to release, so I prepared myself. He shoved his hand in his pocket and took out a handful of dollar bills. I would have rejoiced if I wouldn't have been expectant to unpleasantness. He threw the money over me like throwing rations to a dog. He bent his face close to mine, his eyes pierced right through me and suddenly I wanted it to be over. I heard him work his mouth and to my disgust I knew at once what he meant to do. He spit in my face and my eyes immediately blinked away the saliva that had landed inside of them. He opened the door and looked back at me once more. I remained seated, slowly wiping away the spit with my hands. He chuckled and slammed the door behind him.

You cannot ask why we do this. Though some may give a personal complex answer, as a whole it still remains a question unanswered. The only thing that can be said is that someone has to do it. Though we are creatures of the night we have to live to bear the existence of the day where the light shines on us as the scum, the used, and neglected. We exist in hushed voices excluded from society. We are merchants; the difference in our sell is that our body is the object at auction. It’s not a justification just another way of life, and some of us loose that lust for life and become empty shells that live merely to exist. But we have thoughts and we have feelings and somehow we learn to coexist with the rest of the world.

After washing my face and adjusting myself I sat in the bed. I finished my regular quantity of clients for the night and the room was paid for, so I sat down and picked the remote control from the dresser. “Pretty Woman” was on channel five. I gave a little laugh thinking of the awful irony. I thought about the pretty lies they implanted on the film. From my experience rich men were always the worse. They didn't care of the values or talents we possessed, if any. In fact, they looked down at them; they didn't want to see us as women but as objects of pleasure. But when she kissed him on the lips I couldn't help but heave a long wistful sigh. From the night’s exertions I became drowsy and soon fell asleep.

I awoke from a thump that didn't come from the television. Immediately I realized the TV had been turned off as were the lights. A flash showered the obscure room with red light coming in from the window; I knew it was from the hotel sign blinking outside. I slowly sat up and began to make out the outline of a man approaching me. Every flashing light created an affect that made him seem to hover towards me. The cheap cologne enveloped my nose and I recognized the white button shirt. One red look from his eyes and I knew he was there to murder me. He stood over me, when the red light shone again it sparkled on the shinny object in his right hand. I did not scream and did not run because my precious redeemer had finally come. He watched me looking back at him expressionless. Perhaps he thought I was in shock or under the influence of a drug. I wanted to smile but I was motionless and expectant as before. The first stab brought a jolt of pain that covered my entire body but as the rest proceeded the pain was no more. Everything was hushed to silence as I laid there dying watching him retreat silently in the same hovering effect. I felt my lips smile and soon drifted into the unreturned form of unconsciousness.
Even before my death I knew there would be no one to mourn my passing. Society would read the papers and in their minds and in their hearts believe I got what I deserved. If there was some sort of service only the caretaker would be there asking himself why no one showed for the pretty woman.

Publication Date: 10-02-2011

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