Rounding the corner of another street the winds of decay sweep another crumpled piece of paper into my face.
Like a post-apocalyptic film the walls of the once crowning skyline of the City of the Masses decays around me. The once majestic monuments to progress now only house spirits of regression. The days of honor, wisdom, and love long past now only decadence, immorality, and pain remain. I catch this bit of paper and squint as I attempt to read the feminine handwriting. I go to hold it up to the flickering street light, that once guided and protected those on their way, and spot a poster on the wall near by. A young lady scantly clad in the black of her tormented soul with hair equally black covering most of her face, a sad and used face. Across the poster was painted the cold, evil word "sold". I turn my attention to the echo etched in pencil in my hand.
"They called again tonight...is this my fate? I am trying so hard to be more, more than a price tag. They were drunk, calling because they were looking for an easy score. Is that all I am? A piece of ass? Am I really just something to be sold? They think because I have a vagina I am an object for their satisfaction..."
I look away for a moment, distracted by my anger and frustration. It seems that the way of men and women circle in an endless cycle like polluted water circling a drain. Men use women and in turn women use men...a vicious circuit of pain and retribution driving home the division between the sexes even further. I look back to the paper painfully not wanting to see if my fears for this girl were true.
"I know these calls are annoying...but really what can I do? My parents can't help they think I am worthless, my sister judges me, and my boyfriend is more than short tempered about other guys calling me. But really...I am beginning to think this is my fate. I have looks, I guess it's my curse? Who knows...maybe this is all I am meant to be? I may as well give up..."
The note ended there, the author tired of writing, after all what would it change? I looked around wondering if she ever wrote more. I knew in the dark nagging part of my mind the answer to my thoughts, but a part of me hoped for more. I found nothing, nothing but another poster on another wall. The woman the same as the one before. In her hands she held a bottle of beer and a medley of pills and needles, the dark tools of a merciless master. She had a smile on her face and a seductive pose. The black clothes of shame discarded around her and her hair waving free, free like the price tag said strapped around her wrist. I turned to leave but was delayed by one final detail. A tear was welled in her bloodshot eyes, a tear of pain, a tear of regret, a tear of a slave. It was then I had the answer I sought. She gave in to the cycle, the pain, the meaningless.
I walked on, shaking my head at the sadness of the situation. Those looking for meaning and acceptance accepted a path that only brought more longing, and less freedom. Why must men be so cold and greedy? Why do girls with vast horizons submit to prison cells with tiny windows?
When will they understand...when will we learn?
