voice

There's an overwhelming darkness in the room.

The door was painted black, the walls were black, there was no light source, nothing capable of reflection. Even when the single table lamp with the white bulb was switched on, there were shadows everywhere, so one could hardly see. The unkempt bedsheets on the queen size bed looked unwashed and unhygienic. A stale cigarette stench hanged in the air. Bottles and cups of unfinished liquids of an un-ascertainable quality strewn on the floor. Syringes stuck upside down. And there there were the ashed stained floors, where cigarettes were snuffed out, as if this was an ash tray, or a public street (the writer here hopes the reader recognises that snuffing out a cigarette on a public street may be illegal (and yet common) while doing it to your own floor is entire legal (and yet incomprehensible)). C sat up and thought, what the hell was he still doing here. His sinuses were inflamed. His body was aching. And beyond the horrible air, his inflamed sinuses, he could smell himself and he smelled terrible.

Disgusted. he sat up and coughed, and caught his spit with his hands, instinctively afraid it would soil his T-shirt. Then he flung the phlegm on the floor. Fuck. Somewhere outside, he heard a horn and jumped. He could make out traffic noise so it must be day outside. He needed to get out of there, he thought. Where the hell were the police?

Sixteen months ago, and he knew the precise date because it was new year's eve, he acquired the services of a Vietnamese prostitute, whose name C forgotten, for sexual pleasure. The reader would recognise, and C himself does not use the word 'sex' because sex is somewhat a narrow definition of what services C sought when engaging a prostitute.

At the end of the session (and the reader should note the use of the euphemism), C tipped heavily, and they left the room together. She, the prostitute, crossed the road, and C saw her passed 50 dollars to another girl - who C then presumed was another prostitute, and he learnt later was named, Michelle. Michelle. The question for C now was, if he knew what was going to happen to him, would C still have approached her? Was her beauty worth it?

Michelle was what C would simply describe as gorgeous. Thick long black flowing hair beyond her shoulders. Amazing complexion - light beige skin - and you can't tell whether she was Chinese, Vietnamese, or Eurasian. C guessed, optimistically, Chinese, and was wrong. She was tall (about 175cm) and her long black skirt concealed her undoubtedly long legs. And although she was slim, C could tell from her relatively wide shoulders and those curved hips, that she epitomises the golden ratio. She was also pretty - a long face, with a small chin. Her forehead was about one third of the length of her face, her eyebrows were plucked thin and symmetrical, her round eyes shone with energy and her perfect little nose in its proper place about two thirds from the middle of her hair line. C could remember exactly how she looked like from across the street. She was smiling, her smile framed by full lips, showing only a perfect row of upper teeth.

[to be continued (as usual - probably not going to happen)]