Literature & Stories

The Wayward Sister

wayward1.jpgIt was the wind that woke her, bringing a cloud of dirt and the revolting odour she now realised had come from her own putrid limbs. She had absolutely no recollection of who she had been before now. She felt nothing but the emptiness in her stomach and a sensation of having lost more than she could remember.

Years ago she had deluded herself into believing she had once been a woman of great stature, great worth; a side-effect of the struggle, a pretty veil for all that was currently visible to her…the remains of a body that biology had once doomed feminine, and a empty crack-pipe which reminded her that she now had work to do.

It is early yet. Just enough time to grab a quick wash in the gully down below. Funny, her filth never seemed to bother her clientele, themselves not much cleaner. She is optimistic afterward, the evening cool. She stretches her arms and inhales the smog, and it does not bother her, lungs already polluted by her habits. She lights a cigarette and searches for the spot she’ll claim her own tonight.

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