The Camden Town murder

 

The moment after I died, I saw all the naked bodies of my clientele in front of me. The fat bellies, the hairy chests, the bad teeth of the deplorables and deprived of North London. You’d think that even a working girl like me deserves a better parting image. You’d think that – him – being the merciful and the just he claims to be, would bless me with a closure at least. Instead here I am, relieved from life, but hanging in this middle ground between life and death, between hell and heaven. God, how I hate middle grounds?

Our madam always talked about death. She said that our lives flash in front of our eyes just before we’re taken away, but that He would choose to show only the beautiful parts. And that even us, we will have more beautiful parts than we ever knew. Of all the lies she told, and they are many, this is the one that hurts me the most now as I am held in this strange place. I thought that – no matter how unkind He’s been to me, He would still give his child a farewell becoming of the innocent girl who once kneeled for him and begged him for a life less painful. How bitter can he be? Like all the ugly men of my life, he didn’t have a knack for pleasuring a woman, not even on her deathbed.

On one left of the line of ugly men, was the old man who lived in front of our old house. He was the one who made me a woman when I was barely twelve. He looked me right in the eyes, and I turned away in shame. How old you need to be to learn about shame and guilt? Twelve if you take my word for it. Unlike the madame, I didn’t want to scream at him. I only wanted to be able to look him in the eyes, the same wish I had since I was twelve. The same wish I don’t fulfill even at this point where fears should cease to exist.

Then somewhere in the crowd stood my first love. He still had his innocent smile that – I assume – was not taken away by an old ugly neighbour. I hated his smile. It was cowardly and needlessly apologetic. The same smile he had when I broke his heart over and over again. The same smile I wiped off his face with a slap one night, kissed him for the first time and made him a man. Nothing irritates me in life – or death – more than the smiles of privileged men. Not even the ugly sweaty bodies, the loveless love-making or the fake orgasms. I reached out for him, hoping he would kiss me, grab me, just take an action. He didn’t.  He just stood there and smiled.

On the right of the line, there was that sophisticated middle aged man who came every month or so and asked for me specifically out of all the girls. Admittedly, he was one of the few with a kind heart, if such a thing exists in this world. He once told me – holding me and kissing my body breathlessly – that God was a woman, a beautiful woman with an ample bosom like mine. I believed him. I thought it was fair and fitting that there is a woman’s world somewhere in this universe.

Now, I know he was wrong. Even though, I am still hanging in this middle ground between heaven and hell, and I haven’t crossed to the other side to see him, I am sure that god is a man. Only a man would throw a little girl in his dark alleys, then take her life without even having the decency of apologizing with one first orgasm.

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