At home I am the little slut, the bitch, the whore, occasionally just the girl. I did not have long to wait. “Good,” I could feel his leer, even though I wasn’t looking at him. That is what Ian calls me at least; my mum doesn’t really call me much at all. A second string found my open mouth and a third missed my face instead splattering my t-shirt. The woman on the armchair was particularly beautiful though older than the other three. My mother certainly never cooked and Ian had a tendency to get violent if he didn’t have a meal on the table after work. Finally he had had enough and pushed my head away. He was not so bad to look at though his crumpled clothes bought a decade ago didn’t help; in another life I might even have found him attractive, but not in this one.
