The streets of this city are awash with power. Glittering, running through its alleys and roads like a network of veins, pumping blood and air into it, keeping it alive. Everywhere you go, there is a sense of privilege, of glamour thinning the line between what is real and what is fake. They think I’m plastic, that my face, my tits, my hair, it’s all plastic. They’re right. The best cosmetic surgeons in the city work on me regularly to make sure everything remains eternal, alive, and unchanging. I pay them well to make sure they do a good job.
I climb out of the Bentley, my hand held gently by my date for the evening. I use the term ‘date’ loosely, he is really more of an escort hired for the purpose of looking good, but not too good. Is there anything else I can call him? Maybe a well-placed Honey or Darling can complete the illusion that we are, indeed, a beautiful, happily glowing couple in this city of lights. I don’t care though; there are illusions enough around me.
As I climb up the red carpeted staircase, my gown flows behind me in emerald glory. Little beads of green baubles, sewn together to form a canopy that fits me like a second skin, hiding everything but revealing all as I move, making my way to the grand ballroom. I can hear the people gasp around me, perhaps a split second of movement showed a nipple? I secretly smile - the gown was just as I had imagined it would be. I would make sure the designer knew I was pleased with his work.
They came to feast, these people, their eyes condemning yet seeking more titilation at the same time. I have no intention of indulging them : my body is a temple that not everyone can worship at. It takes a special kind of man to turn me on, one who matches my hunger with his greed. The skin show was for his benefit, the plastic to make me beautiful to his eyes, the escort to make me more desirable to him. He was everything I wanted and I had no intention of letting him go.
Walking in, I let my eyes roam the hallways as other eyes roamed over me. Live and let live, that is what I believe, so I let them look. I never was a shy girl, even when I was younger and still working for a living. Not to be mistaken, I should clarify that perhaps I still work for a living. It is only the nature of work that has changed… and of course, the pay scale. I can barely remember what life was like before this now. What was I doing, trudging along muddy roads going from shop to shop trying to sell my company’s products? Did I think I could make a difference to anyone doing that menial work? No. I have come a long way since then. It came at a price, but it was worth it. That is what I tell myself everyday.
Sometimes, though, I miss it. The simplicity that was life then. Work hard, party hard, though all I did was work. Where was the time to party? And if I am to be honest with myself, I had no friends to party with either. So I worked and worked myself, by myself, till I fell exhausted in my bed every night. Such was life, that I fell into the first pair of arms that found me each time, and then fell out of them as they used and threw me away. There remains a faint memory of tears shed, of blood and scars and knives. I have no use for those memories now though, so I threw them away.
There he is. My goal for the evening, standing there resplendent in his tuxedo and black bow tie. The tie is a little crooked as always, doesn’t he know by now that it makes me itch to straighten it? I can see his eyes turn towards me. Now they look over me, through me, as if taking in my dress and tearing it apart. Finally they meet my own grey irises, and I finally see the fury reflected in them. I smile coyly - was I not expected to come to his birthday party? The thoughts flit across his face. Who let me in without an invitation? Would I cause a scene if asked to leave discreetly? What was I doing wearing that ridiculous dress in his house!
“Hello Mrs.Raman, congratulations”, I said politely to our hostess for the evening. “Mr.Raman may have turned 50, but he doesn’t look a day over 35!”
“Thank you dear… I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name. What did you say it was?”
“I haven’t offered it yet Mrs.Raman, don’t worry”, I smiled at her while she quickly glanced at my cleavage - was a nipple showing again? - and then back to my face. “I’m an old colleague of Mr.Raman, I used to be his secretary a few years ago and we’ve been corresponding ever since.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, so nice of you to have come then. Although Mr.Raman never mentioned you before.”
“That’s only natural ma’am. You don’t talk about the people you’re fucking to your wife.”
Silence. Had he really thought he could get away with it? It’s been so many years since he’d raped me, maybe he’d forgotten why he had hired me in the first place. I never forget. I never forgive. I never give up.
Happy Birthday Mr.Raman.
*Disclaimer - Yes it's all fiction.
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