He used to call me his Damselfly.
"Skinny and quick and hard to catch whenever (I ran)," was his reasoning, as he'd tell me all the time. Fucking cliche asswipe. I'm a human fucking being, and if anything else, I'd be a god damn Dragonfly. He took me when I was too young to realize what was going on, what was happening to me, why my father was pushing me into that car. Everything after that is just a fucking black hole of shit I don't want to write down, or remember, so fuck that. Maybe that's why I've always refused therapists in prison.
I've been out for about a month now. Left Jersey's ass-end for, I guess, Louisiana's ass-end. Just can't afford to live above the navel line, I guess. Hathian's a shitty place, but I'm fucking used to shitty places, so what's the difference? I've slept on bed bugs and prison cots for the past decade. I know nobody here. Not anymore. My cousin was killed here, so I guess I've had some ties here, but other than that... nothing. I never knew her. It doesn't matter.
Nothing really matters now, honestly. I have nothing but booze. The first god damn thing I did when I got out is take a taxi to the nearest liquor store in my shitty prison-given outfit. The driver asked if I was homeless. I pretended to be put off, but it was fucking true. Wasn't his business anyway. Hell, I'm not sure if I ever could be anything but angry anymore. I thought revenge would make it go away and maybe I'd be able to feel feelings again, but no, it hasn't. At least the alcohol numbs the anger a bit. Maybe one day I'll feel peace, or anything other than anger and boredom, but I've yet to see it. I served my time, but I feel no regret, no repentance. I did what was right. It didn't have to serve any emotional purpose - it served a realistic one. They can't hurt any more little girls and women like they did to me. I guess, at the end of the day, I was kind of my own martyr. A shitty one. But now that's over. That part of my life is over, and now I'm lost. I'm sitting on the floor in a cheap motel and writing on the back of a hepatitis info flier.
I thought I'd be dead by now. I guess I'm heading towards it, like we all are, but maybe (hopefully?) at a faster pace. The booze will help. I could be looking for a real job, but I have no real job experience. I can't make a resume. The one thing they don't tell you about sex slavery is that, if you get out, you won't be able to write a god damn cover letter to save your fucking life.
Anyway... that's enough of this shit.
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