Passenger
"You have to keep driving."
I could see her eyes in the rearview mirror. Darting to the side. To me. Brown starry eyes that closely resembled the eyes of a deer. Natalie sat in the passenger seat with a gleaming smile, her back straightened to a right angle that formed with her outstretched arms. And that gun. She fidgetted in the seat and laughed a little. All too exciting for her.
I had always wondered if she would actually shoot anybody. I remember when I had picked her up in Vegas. She had to have been all of 16 or 17 back then, but already a reputable whore. We had never talked about such things though, and she had never told me for sure about her age. Perhaps she was older. She was such a small thing though, and with the uncertainty and unexplainable excitement that youth offers, upon which I based my assumptions. She had been unbelieving at my request at first. Her drawn-on eyebrows raised at me. But she had gone without questions... I suppose a questionable life is more fulfilling than a life of alternately fucking men and being forcefully abused. But what would I know? I had never experienced either.
The woman would relax after a while. We would drive, and she would begin to talk, nervously at first. She would introduce herself, give us part of her story, and then eventually get into character. After that she could expect the struggle. My ability to overcome a staged situation. And a prompt, quick, of-the-moment death... as I triumphed. Just like so many years ago when she had looked back at me from that mirror and had winked at me, planting a seed that just couldn't get enough of the nourishment it needed to go full force.
I like to think of her as mother.
I could see her eyes in the rearview mirror. Darting to the side. To me. Brown starry eyes that closely resembled the eyes of a deer. Natalie sat in the passenger seat with a gleaming smile, her back straightened to a right angle that formed with her outstretched arms. And that gun. She fidgetted in the seat and laughed a little. All too exciting for her.
I had always wondered if she would actually shoot anybody. I remember when I had picked her up in Vegas. She had to have been all of 16 or 17 back then, but already a reputable whore. We had never talked about such things though, and she had never told me for sure about her age. Perhaps she was older. She was such a small thing though, and with the uncertainty and unexplainable excitement that youth offers, upon which I based my assumptions. She had been unbelieving at my request at first. Her drawn-on eyebrows raised at me. But she had gone without questions... I suppose a questionable life is more fulfilling than a life of alternately fucking men and being forcefully abused. But what would I know? I had never experienced either.
The woman would relax after a while. We would drive, and she would begin to talk, nervously at first. She would introduce herself, give us part of her story, and then eventually get into character. After that she could expect the struggle. My ability to overcome a staged situation. And a prompt, quick, of-the-moment death... as I triumphed. Just like so many years ago when she had looked back at me from that mirror and had winked at me, planting a seed that just couldn't get enough of the nourishment it needed to go full force.
I like to think of her as mother.