She hung from the balcony with her arms hanging over head. Her pretty Prada heels hanging by her pedicured toes. Her hazel eyes flickered from above her to the fast pace moving street of New York below her.
Her lotioned fingers were slowly slipping from the frozen metal railed balcony, bringing her inches closer to a fall. She closed her eyes beginning to put her pride aside. Being daddy’s little girl wouldn’t help her from the threat of ending her ‘perfect’ little world.
“Help! Please,” She screamed, her words echoing over the balcony. “Help!” She screamed. Her cries growing louder as she dreamed. Dreamed of a savior. One that suited her flavor. A man – no a boy with blond hair. Who’ll smile and bare his biceps as he tells her “I’m going to help you fight this.” Maybe he’ll have pale eyes, that she’ll fall in love with. Tell her no lies. Maybe he’ll have a smile so sincere, mother Teresa probably wouldn’t come near. So she screamed “help!” again, waiting for her “Savior” to attend. Attend to her cries and needs. Give her everything, to make appease.
But her savior wasn’t in her description. Wasn’t a piece of some Romcom fiction. He was a boy with his hair gelled back. Hidden under a Red Sox baseball cap. His pants secured to his waist, his shirt starched held in place.
Now you see, she’d fallen so in love with her own graphic depictions, that she’d forgotten her life isn’t from fiction. That she wasn’t just daddies little girl. Indulging in her own ‘perfect little world’. She was daddies little toy. Something for play. Give him what he wanted and he’d give her what she wanted the next day. The ‘day after’ pill never had a broken seal. Leaving her expecting and alone. Alone with what she’d have to provide for in a time of nine months. So she let out a sob, let herself fall.
And as she fell she realized what life was slipping from her – her life of living hell.
By: Shayla Bush