She knew where she was going. She’d dressed for it. Dressed for action. The urban-camo pattern skirt that was fourteen inches down the side seam, and six of those were a split. The schoolgirl-style white blouse with no buttons that she’d tied in a tight knot at the front. The guys would go for it.
She knew what she wanted. She was planning on getting it. She headed for the address she’d been given.
The address that was, for her, synonymous with sex and violence.
Abused as a child? Check.
Dysfunctional family life? Check.
Used to accepting violence as normal in a relationship? Check.
Presenting difficult and challenging behaviour as an adolescent, acting out, doing drink and drugs, struggling to find her identity, her authenticity? Check.
But this wasn’t about any of that. She could have been brought up in a wealthy, caring home with no worries, no arguments, a dog and and a pony. She could have been driving up to the house in a Ferrari bought for her by mummy and daddy. She’d still have been wearing the fourteen-inch skirt and the schoolgirl blouse with the buttons pulled off. She’d still have been rocking up to that address, expecting sex and violence.
That was her identity, her authenticity.
What happened in that house was what her dreams were made of.
I might at some point turn this into a longer story, for a self-published collection. For now, the short version will have to do.