der Zuhörer

On that particular meeting alone, I asked him,”You know what the life of a whore is like, right?”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t much of a speaker, but a listener.

So, I continued.”She sells her body and gives her customer the entire right over it. I’ve read many real-life accounts of whorehouses, and what goes on there. Burns from cigarettes, cut marks on skin…quite a common scene. I was no different. He left me feeling like a whore. I let him see the most vulnerable parts of myself and gave as much love as I could afford; I gave myself entirely to Him…yet….yet I was left feeling like nothing but some whore standing in a dark alley, bruised and bloodied.”

Perhaps, Thomas Shelby was right when he said,”Everyone’s a whore, Grace. We just sell different parts of ourselves.” I told him everything about my crippling depression and about the nights when I wanted to kill myself. Every scar on my body was a lovechild of ours.”Do you understand how it keeps me awake every night, I asked him?”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t much of a speaker, but a listener.

I shouted in delirium and bombarded him with questions whose answers I myself didn’t know.

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t much of a speaker, but a listener.

Eventually, my voice faded into oblivion.

Last December, I killed Him with my own hands and for many a night, now I’ve been talking to his portrait hanging on the wall of my room that I painted with my very own blood.

 

Picture courtesy: Pinterest