&& LULLABY.

[&& RACHAEL LARSON.]

Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground

You wouldn’t expect the backstreets to be any sort of place a young woman would feel at home in, but as her footsteps echoed against the cold brick alleys, she felt no sort of fear gripping her, at least, not any more than usual. But no, she didn’t feel at home here. If anyone said that it was a lie. This was never a place to feel at home in, not at all. But she felt a sense of familiarity, if anything. She recognized the sly grins on the faces of married men, scouting around, trying to find something new and exciting, the attempts at nonchalant expressions plastered on the faces of whores. Yes, it was all something familiar to her. But she walked past it all, hands in her pockets, head down.

She was truly a beautiful girl, if you peeled past the voluminous number of scars. Her eyes were warm, shining more so in the dull light of street lamps. Chestnut tresses were pulled into a single bunch at the side of her head, low and comfortable. Her jacket was denim, rather beat up, but dear to her; her shirt a green hue. Her jeans were comfortable, easy to walk in, a few holes in them through natural processes, not paid for in some silly store. A few of the men dotting the streets let their eyebrows rise, took a step towards her, but she merely took one step back. She wasn’t here for any purpose like so. She didn’t think it was fair to make them pay. So many people had already taken that from her, why charge others to do so as well? She was worthless, in her own mind, just another toy. And she didn’t dare climb onto that high horse and make others pay for a shot at it. They might as well just force it. It made no difference to her.

Then why did she pace these streets alone, shrouded in the cloak of night? If she wasn’t here to sell herself, was she then in turn there to thrust her money at a dealer, taking home some of the goods he offered? No, neither of these was correct. Strange as it was, she was there to think, clear her mind. Most would never come to a place as nerve wracking as this, but Rachael was not just anyone. Being alone in the quiet made her heart beat quickly, left her alone with the memories. But here, amongst the quiet bustle of the backstreets, she felt calm. Strange, it may seem, but in some twisted manner it made sense to her. She wasn’t about to question one of the very few things that brought her a sense of comfort.

Cigarette lighter was held in her left hand, though she hadn’t smoked in ages. She merely flipped open the top, and with a flick of her thumb let loose a small, steady flame. Her eyes watched it calmly as it danced in the cold night air. Her skin was illuminated, and her eyes slowly trailed away from the flames to a particular scar on her hand. She narrowed her eyes, trying to place it in her mind. The scars were not the only reminder of what had happened, but sometimes they seemed the most reliable, the most poignant. Clearer to her than memories, clearer than her own lack of self esteem. And so she relied on them, relied on them to help her. Silly, to remind on some imperfection on the skin. But they were dear to her, in some twisted manner, and she never dared have them removed. Would that not only lead to more scars?

She almost thought about the silliness people would go through just to be perfect, but stopped short. Coming from perhaps the worst of these sorts, a girl who starved herself. She strived that perfection, she was no one to judge. She flicked the lighter closed, tired of its ability to point out the obvious, its ability to illuminate what one wanted to stay hidden. No, she was not one to judge. She was the girl who would refuse food, would throw herself into a bathroom, water running to hide it all. The scar on her knuckle from her teeth, the constant feeling of queasiness, the constant feeling of inadequacy. It was all there. She was not one to judge.

So many people these days let themselves judge each other, but no, none of them were qualified to say anything about it. Didn’t they all seek perfection? Was it not some sort of sick human trait to want it all to be perfect? Even the person who tried to give off the appearance that they didn’t care sought perfection. It was something everyone wanted, and no one could have. She’d been told since day one that she was not good enough, that she was worthless. She’d blamed herself for it all, blamed herself for Big Ray’s anger. What use was a daughter who was worthless? What good did she do to any of them? Her grades were never good, she had no friends those first years. It was all her fault, was it not?

And so she’d let herself be beaten, let herself be thrown around. Let her own mind cause her to starve herself, trying so hard to believe that she wasn’t worthless. But it all boiled down to nothing, just an empty stomach and some scars. Was it all worth it? Causing herself pain to lessen that of others? Or was she just another one of them, one of those self absorbed girls who could only focus on what would make her look best? She shook her head, pausing to lean against a brick wall. She wasn’t good enough to be selfish. You had to have some sort of pride to be selfish, didn’t you? Could you really be absorbed in your own inadequacies?


Hands were shoved more into her pockets, eyes fluttered closed. So much to think about, so much to remember, before she had to make her way home to the apartment she couldn’t afford, to the inevitable “Where’s my rent?” She took a deep breath, eyes scanning the blackness, left hand opening and closing the cover to her lighter. Distraction was not something she had hoped for, but she swore she felt the burn of eyes upon her.

Face down in the dirt,
She says, "This doesn't hurt."
She says, "I've finally had enough."

[/blockquote][/center][/b]