Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Every day was the same. Monotonous. Futile. Tedious. It was always going to be just a matter of time before I snapped.
As I knelt on the bed, giving a sad hand job to a pathetic man, I cast my gaze around the room. The lurid pink walls and tacky red satin sheets were more offensive in the dim lamplight than they seemed under the fluorescent room light. The organza draped ‘tastefully’ around the room did nothing to soften my mood, either.
God, I hate this place.
The pathetic man, lying back in what I can only presume was a state of euphoria, groaned.
“Oh, baby. Keep going.”
I rolled my eyes. Really? I smiled sarcastically at him, daring him, no, willing him, to open his eyes and see it. But he didn’t, so I slipped into my world of dreams. I called up my favourite fantasy – the one where I’m a surgeon, and I can cure cancer. I slice and stitch with the greatest of skill, helping people to heal and letting them live their lives to the fullest. The patient I was working with this time was a single mother with a brain tumour. She had four kids at home, whose lives depended on her survival. I skilfully moved the scalpel, knowing how other surgeons must pray to be a fly on the wall, to learn to work miracles the way I do. With the tumour cut free, I pulled at it with the tweezers…
“Hop on baby, let me take you for a ride,” moaned the man, dragging me from my fantasy.
That was it.
I yanked hard on the appendage in my hand. It had the desired effect.
“What the-?”
“I’m not your baby.” I cut him off. “I don’t even like you. In fact, you completely repulse me.” I spun on my heels, and flung the door open. “Fuck this shit! I’m sick of it all!” My scream raced through the wallpapered corridor, and a few of the girls stuck their heads out to see what was going on. I started marching, until I was flooded with a strange mixture of grief and relief, and then I was running. Far away from here.
Well, that was how it played out in my mind. The story reality told made me want to weep.
“Full service is extra, baby, and you’ll need to pay up now,” I whispered sweetly.