Sarah Savell

Found Poem

daybreak

still sadly sweltering summer

earthly life, dark city

whirlwinds

faith that the most misguided

find some inner peace

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"Little Lady"

(trigger warning: vague references to abuse and rape)

“Little Lady” ~ Ed Sheeran and Mikill Payne

Little lady, this is just the worst way to spend your birthday

It’s thirty degrees, Thursday, you’re working late

You was with a perv making dirty fake love in his Mercedes

Lady, the word rape sums up events that take place every night

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Her feet are cold, absolutely freezing in the dump that the landlord calls a “reputable apartment.” Ominous sounds come from the room one door down. If she’s lucky, her neighbor is just getting high with his friends. If she’s not, he’ll come drunkenly calling, asking for her services even though her pimp hasn’t cleared it.

Everything hurts. Every muscle screams, especially her legs. There are cold imprints of the car seats on the bottoms of her feet from where she braced herself in the car, waiting out her client as he moved above her. It’s all semantics, she tells herself, cold and calculating business, because if it was ever anything else she might feel the pain. She hopes her neighbor won’t come visiting. Her legs are too shaky to go another round, especially with that type.

She struggles to sit, then limps across the worn, bare carpet to the mirror. It’s cracked on one side, and if she leans far enough to the right, a jagged crack goes across her face. She leans that way now, in a futile attempt to cover the ugly bluish-purple mark on her face. She can barely afford makeup to hide these things, let alone a massive bruise like that. She bites her lip, willing the tears that drip from her face to stop falling. They don’t.

She tries anyway, smudging the vaguely hand-shaped mark with concealer. It’s painfully obvious, the stark beige color of the makeup contrasting with the rest of her face, and bits of blue showing from underneath. It hurts. It hurts and there’s no point in denying that she needs someone to look at it. She decides to go to a clinic in the morning; there she can be anonymous, just a silly girl that walked into a doorway while fooling around with her mates.

Squirming under the scanty bed covers, she tells herself she’s lucky that she even gets to sleep tonight, regardless of how cold it might be. Days are spent trying to sell magazines on the street so she can eat; nights are spent with clients. Half that money goes to her rent (which she keeps down because the landlord is old, lonely, and undesirable to anyone with free will) and the other half she sends home.

Home seems far away, even when she closes her eyes and tries to dream of it. Home was in another country, where the floor was made of dirt and her mother used to cry at night while the children slept on empty stomachs. Maybe it’s still that way.

She sighs and turns restlessly. She came to England when Mother was desperate, because there were supposed to be jobs in England, and an uncle that would help with school. She was supposed to graduate, get a job, and work her way to the top so everyone else could eat. Just one daughter over the upper hand, that was all her mother prayed for.

It’s morning; probably has been for hours. She gives up on sleep and tries to dress herself as best as she can. Dark-coloured tights cover up the bruises still fading on her legs and thighs, a long-sleeved blouse that hides her bony arms. She carefully pours bottled water into a chipped bowl and washes her face, because utilities are too expensive. Makeup is next, then she brushes her hair with her fingers.

When she finishes the girl looking at her from the mirror looks factory-produced. Her skin is a uniform white (thanks to the makeup), her arms are skinny but not dangerously thin, and her stick-like legs are hidden by the folds of a tattered skirt. She doesn’t look like someone who’s doing very well in life, but she doesn’t look like she’s starving either. It’s like she’s reached an impasse with herself.

She takes the Underground to reach the clinic. She’s been there before, a year ago when her lip was split. Her uncle had taken it into his head that she was withholding money, so he’d hit her. She still remember the look of pure rage in his eyes; he had looked ready to beat her senseless. She’d stared up at him fearfully, shivering, with a plea on her lips when he’d drawn back. Maybe he’d thought that hurting her would cause her to run away. As if. She knows she’ll never have enough money to run away, not if she wants to send money back to her mother and siblings.

The wait is long and miserable. The clinic is full of disease-ridden people, hacking and coughing until the cacophony is more than she can bear. She wishes she had something with her, something to smoke out back or take the edge off the throbbing in her jaw. She knows a dealer, of course, and spends nearly all her food money for what he sells. He isn’t the one to be swayed by sexual favors, unfortunately, which is one of the reasons why she works so hard to keep her rent down.

“Come in.” A nurse calls, holding open a curtain. There are cots set up in a line, with curtains for privacy instead of walls. Obligingly, she walks in.

“Now, just sit down and tell me what’s troubling you.” the nurse says. She sound more like a therapist than a nurse.

She says, “Ran into a door. I was being stupid, fooling around with my mates.” Even the words sound bitter in her ears.

“Ah.” the nurse scribbles something on her confounded clipboard, the cogs in her brain already turning. “And...?”

“It hurts.” She offers, because she won’t admit to being high or drunk. Then they’ll want to know a thousand other things, and she’s learned that questions are more dangerous than anything else in her life. Don’t think, don’t ask questions, just do it; just keep breathing, just keep going, just stare at the ceiling and try not to think about a stranger's hands all over your body.

The nurse is staring at her, tapping her pen. “Yes, but what do you need?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, shouldn’t you have painkillers?”

That’s when the nurse gets that look, the one that says she suddenly understands what the situation is. “Sweetheart, did you really run into a door?”

She’s started to tremble at that question. “Yeah, I told you. I’m just clumsy, ‘s all. No big deal.”

“Don’t you have medicine at home that you could take?”

“Mum’s job doesn’t pay well.” That isn’t a lie, at least. “I didn’t want to bother her. It’s fine, really, if you don’t have anything.”

She starts to get off the cot, intending to leave. The nurse lays a hand on her arm, gently stalling her. “No, no, I think I can help.” the nurse assures her quickly, voice going from suspicious to falsely soothing.

The nurse leads her to another room, one that’s real, and leaves her there with the promise of some sort of painkiller. She sits on the bed with her legs swinging back and forth anxiously, holding a bag of ice to her cheek. When the nurse doesn’t come back after five minutes she starts to panic. The door is locked, and there aren’t any windows.

She was foolish to think her lie was plausible.

She’s really done it now. Who knows who the nurse has called, or what she’s done. By time the cop shows up she frantically pacing the rooms, murmuring to herself in broken English. When she sees him, she tries to bolt.

His first question, once he’s gotten her to look at him, is, “What’s your name?”

“Angel.” the word is a whisper. It’s not her real name, of course. It’s the name she gives her clients, one that they turn into horrid jokes because of how untrue it seems.

He nods. “Thank you. Angel, I think we both know where you got that bruise, and it wasn’t from a door, was it?”

She goes mad then, jumping for the door. She needs to get out, to escape before he can get her into more trouble than she already is. Legally, her uncle is her guardian, and if the police return her to him it means that she’ll die as soon as the door closes behind her. It’s the reason why he’s so good at what he does; in public light, he’s the loving uncle who takes care of her. Any attempt from her to leave gets her returned to him, where he can do whatever he likes. He’s never made that threat, oh no, but it’s tangible in the air and the way he speaks to her.

There’s so little muscle on her arms that the nurses’ attempts to subdue her have left white fingerprints along her skin. She’s shivering on the bed, legs tucked underneath her. It’ll be fine, she tells herself; just stare at the floor while he asks her things and then mumble responses that pass as the ones of a sullen teenager.

“What is your name?” he repeats, because he knows just as well as she does that she’s not telling him the truth.

“Angel.” She says again, trying to make it sound true. It nearly is, after all, since no one can be bothered to remember her real name.

He nods, lips pursed. All right, he’s at least taking that as truth. “Alright. Who are you working for, Angel?” At her gasp of surprise, he adds, “I’m not going to beat around the bush. You’re obviously working for someone; specifically, a pimp. What he’s doing is illegal, and I can help you get out.”

She doesn’t answer, because he’s deluded himself when she knows there’s no way out. She can barely afford housing as it is, and if she gets sent home to her mother then the entire family will starve. Yes, her situation is about as bad as it could get, but at least her siblings can eat and have some chance at getting into school. She prays that they’ll never be sent to stay with her uncle. She can’t bear the idea of this happening to them too.

“Please, Angel, you can tell me. I promise that no harm will come to you if you tell me who you’re working for. I can make sure you’re safe - the police will even have you returned home.”

Bad, bad, bad. She just shakes her head, so marginally that he doesn’t even noticed.

With a long-suffering sigh, he leans back. “I can’t claim to understand how you feel, but I know that you must be scared. To you, he seems all powerful, yeah? He’s not. Whoever you’re working for, he’s just an ordinary human making a bad job decision, and we can stop him. All you have to do is tell us who he is, and testify against him. He’d never be able to hurt any other girls again, I promise. Please, Angel.”

For about five minutes they’re locked in a silent competition to see who will speak first. She knows she will win; she’s learned silence as a defense against her uncle and her clients. With clients, talking can lead to them talking back, sharing secrets... she’s been threatened plenty of times, no need to add more. With her uncle, silence tells him that he controls her. That makes him happy, and if he’s happy then she won’t be beaten.

In the end she wins. The cop digs through his pockets to produce a small white slip of paper. He hands it to her, forcing her to close her fingers around it. “This is the number to the police station, and the one below it is my number. Call me if you change your mind, want to tell me something, or if anyone tries to hurt you. We can help.”

He leaves, and the confused nurses let her out. She’s been lucky this time, she realizes. He thinks that’s she’s actually stupid enough, scared enough to call him, but she knows that no matter how scared she is, asking for help would bring far worse consequences.

It’s gotten dark by time she’s reached home, so dark that she doesn’t notice the shadow behind her until sharp metal is pressed to her throat. “Where’ve you been?” a deep voice hisses, and she knows that it’s her uncle. She curses silently. She’d been careless enough to think he wouldn’t be looking for her, especially since today is the day she’s supposed to go and give him what she owes.

“What you been up to?” He persists when she’s silent, shoving her into the flat and slamming the door behind them.

She’s trembling, trying to think if she has enough to pay him. She has to - she saved money on food by going to the clinic, since there was a homeless shelter nearby where she’d grabbed a sub-par lunch and snuck some biscuits out in her purse. “N-Nothing.” she manages shakily. She extracts a three ten-pound notes and flings them at him. “Here’s your money. That’s all you want, yeah?”

Clearly it isn’t, and he advances menacingly. “Where could you have possibly been for such a long time? You’re always back by noon, all ready to rest up for your next client.” He says, swinging the knife carelessly at his side.

“The underground got delayed, is all.” she mutters, unable to meet his eyes. Of course he’ll know it’s a lie, he always knows when she’s lying.

“Did it now?”

That’s the moment, the fatal moment. He seems to grow over her, towering over her at impossible heights, the knife glinting as he easily draws it up and holds it as he takes a defensive stance. She’s overcome by debilitating fear and her purse slips from her numb hands.

It’s that card, that damned card the cop gave her. It flutters out along with the biscuits, a ten-pound note, and scraps of paper with loving words from her family. The little white square manages to land perfectly on top of everything else, name facing up. It’s not her savior; she doesn’t know the number, and there’s no way in hell that calling it will do her any good now.

Her uncle towers over her, his face twisted in a snarl. She finds that all she can think of is a combination of the nonsensical and the things she wishes she could have; she sees her mother’s face, hears the laughter of her siblings, but in that mix she’s thinking of the stench of the underground, how the she could really turn up the nonexistent heat in her flat, and how she met a ginger man at a clinic two weeks ago who’d sang a song for her and told her someday things would work out for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And in the moment of rage he brutally murders his niece

And dumps her body in the boot of his Mercs in the street

Little lady left this earth in the worst way

All because she got a card on her thirteenth birthday





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Misc. Art