She sits in the trailer she's been given for the day and waits. She waits for the next man to walk through the door. Some of them are already drunk, barely aware of their actions. Others are sober and completely aware of what they're doing. But it doesn't really matter either way . . . not to her.
She hears the door open and keeps her eyes on her folded hands in her lap. She wrings her hands in agitation as he walks toward her. He smooths her hair as if she were his child. What he doesn't know is that she's actually two years younger than his own daughter - barely 15.
She rises from her seat and it takes all that she has within her to smile weakly up at him. She falls onto the bed that has seen countless others just today. She closes her eyes to keep the pain away and tries not to think too much.
Her heart sinks even further into the pit of her stomach and she wonders if she'll ever get used to being in this business.
Her breath catches in her throat and she fights the tears that well into her once-innocent eyes.
Her head spins uncontrollably and she's afraid that she'll throw up if she can't bring something - anything - under her control.
She sits up as he fastens his belt and slams the door behind him, loudly, as if signifying his finishing with her. A single tear escapes and snakes down her face as she wonders how long it will be before he's back again . . . maybe not with her, but with another girl who spends each moment pleading with God to rescue her.
The room continues to spin and she vomits into a plastic bag. Closing her eyes, she presses her palm to her forehead. Why can't she control anything? Just one thing would be enough.
Here, use this to numb it.
Numb what?
Everything.
The conversation rings in her head and she reaches into the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of cheap vodka. An older, more experienced girl had shoved it into her trembling hands yesterday after he had told her she was working today.
Today . . . of all days, had to be her first.
She unscrews the bottle and sniffs the alcohol inside. She doesn't drink. She's a good girl. But not anymore. Now she's a girl men come to to get things they can't get anywhere else.
The self-hatred rises like a flame within her and the vodka burns a path down her throat, but she doesn't care. After a few more drinks, she won't be able to feel anything anyway.
On her third swallow, she begins to sweat so the burst of cold air feels nice when the door opens. For the few seconds it is open, she can hear the loud cheering and announcers' voices. Then the door is shut and the outside world is gone just as Beyonce takes the stage for halftime.
But what does it matter? Besides, it's not like she really likes football anyway.
