Knitting in the Dark

I can't see my hands, but I can feel the sticks between my fingers, and the yarn between them. My motions are memories, left over from too much practice and not enough social interaction.

Scrape. Click. Rustle. SHIT!

Thank whatever god invented knitting for circular needles.

It's quiet, and it almost feels like I'm breaking the rules, sneaking about in a dark house. I hope I'm doing this right. I'll see in the morning.

Scrape. Click. Rustle. Thump, roll. CRAP!

The harder I pull, the more it unravels. Oh well. I'll just knit until the slack goes away.

My fingers are cold. I should probably give it a rest soon.

...Nah, let's keep going, just a few more stitches, just a few more rows. I'm nearly done, there's no use in stopping now.

The lights come on. I blink. Again.

It's not as fun with the lights on.

Another forgotten project is discarded.

Thoughts of Suicide

(This entry is pure fiction. Any people, places, things, or ideas presented herein are used fictitiously, without the intent of monetary gain.)

I made a decision today.

I'm going to kill myself.

Maybe the world is better off without me. I taint all I touch, sullying the purity of the world by merely existing. Every breath I take is a noxious plume, poisoning everyone around me. I am a rotting cancer, attached to the vital organs of a society.

I remember when I began to feel this way. Three years ago, following a major accident in which my indiscretion caused significant damage to a very close friend, they put me on this painkiller. One of the side effects said that it may cause thoughts of suicide in younger patients. It put me just enough out of it to really look at the world and how I interacted with it. I began to see myself through the eyes of the people around me.

That was when I noticed.

I was gross, appalling, utterly disgusting, and there was nothing I could conceivably do about it. I watched and judged myself for those three endless years.

Today, I made a decision.

I'm going to kill myself.

And nobody will miss me.

I hope.

Men and Women of Questionable Virtue

(This blog is named after an acquaintance of mine, Carlos, who is the first Mexican I've ever met with bright blue eyes. Each post is a standalone work of micro-fiction.)

(The text contained herein is, in its entirety, fiction. Any resemblance to people, places, things or ideas in real life are entirely coincidental.)

They have all sorts of names for people like me: slut, whore, hussy, hooker.

Prostitute.

I call myself a Woman of Questionable Virtue.

There are thousands of us, both male and female, who sell our bodies. Our reasons are our own. Some work for pimps, others are freelance. Some can quit whenever, others are dependent on the cash. All of us need it.

I remember when I started working the streets. I remember why, too.

I was twenty-three and had just broken up with a long-time flame. I was disgruntled and hopelessly horny, sitting on a bench outside of my ex-boyfriend's apartment in an old minidress, trying to decide whether I was going back up to his loft or going home. A car pulled up. The window rolled down. The driver called out to me. "hey baby, home much for a good time?" I didn't care about the money. I just wanted the sex. When we were done, he dropped me back where he'd found me.

The next day, I dressed up and sat outside of my bank. I had three "clients" that day and made roughly three hundred dollars.

I sell my body because I'm addicted to the sex. The money is just a perk.

Hey, it's cheaper than therapy, right?