dos

"Zaret, please leave me some of the pennies." Now I don't care that he sees my tears. These few coins are all I own. I have already sold all my belongings. At least what anyone else wanted. But even these few cash reserves have been used up.

So I hope for sympathy. Anything that would help me keep at least two pennies. But it is in vain. Zaret just snorts his nose in amusement. "Why should I?"

There's the power of the voice again. This shows me that any explanation would bring nothing. But I can't sit idly by while he takes everything from me. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for that. "I... I'm hungry and I..."

"I don't care." He laughs hard and roughly grabs my chin. "You should be glad I didn't cut your dress off and let you go home naked." And those words make me sob as the first tear slips from my eye. The determination in what has been said shows that there is nothing I can do. Each sentence would make it worse. And so I am silent. Don't notice the tightening of my heart.

He looks at me for a moment and his fingers dig painfully into my skin. "Come on Kalota, say something stupid so I can stick the knife in your thigh." As he speaks, an icy shiver comes over me. This is not an empty threat. Zaret would put it into action. That's more than obvious. He too has to nibble at these times. Although Zaret works in a mine shaft, it hardly brings him any money. But the prostitutes, they make him a very wealthy man. And that's where the problem lies. We're not earning enough at the moment. And so I want to turn away from him - to appease him somehow. But it doesn't work because he's still holding my chin in his grip.

I just want a little rest. I'm not asking much. Just a little persistence. A little money, which gives me enough food and dry shelter. Not more. That can't be too much to ask, can it? Something inside me screams that I do want more. That I deserve love, closeness and stability. But I quickly trample that tiny thought down. That probably won't happen again. At least when I look at my life so far. Nobody falls in love with a whore.

Once again Zaret snorts contemptuously, but then lets go of me. "Let her go. She can't do anything anyway." And with that, the two men move away from me. I immediately stroke my wrists and now the pain from the cut is slowly creeping through my body.

But I can't deal with that either, because Zaret suddenly rushes forward and before I can react, his fist thunders into my lower abdomen. Directly on the wound. I yelp and bitter bile immediately enters my mouth. The world is spinning around me, and since Zaret is the only one I can hold on to, I grab onto his cloak. But he doesn't allow that, instead he slaps my hands away.

"It's for lying," he hisses, but I can barely understand the words. I'm sick. And I'm in pain. It's crawling through my body and making me shake more and more, taking all my sanity. Still is the mixture of bile and saliva in my mouth and I can only spit it out with difficulty. Then my legs give out and so I slide down the wall with my back. Just don't fall. In fact I can do it and as I do I put my face in my palms with my butt on the floor. I know I shouldn't take my eyes off Zaret, but right now it's more important to get the dizziness under control. Just don't throw up. More and more saliva builds up and I can't decide between swallowing and spitting.

But I am not given any rest. Someone grabs my hair and pushes my head back. And even if the face is plunged in darkness, I recognize Zaret. him again.

"Please don't," I whisper and another hot tear runs down my cheek. But Zaret says nothing, just looks at me. Then there's a hum, and before I can catch the sound, he's pressing my face into his crotch. Immediately I only smell him - his shame. I want to tear myself away from him, but I can't. There's still a swindle there. This one makes me weak. And so he can move his pelvis unhindered. I can feel the semi-rigid member under the fabric of the pants and that's enough to push me deeper into despair. Zaret has never touched me. Never. And I always appreciated that about him.

He hums again with pleasure and presses my face more firmly against his crotch. And again I can't breathe properly. The material is too firm, Zaret is using too much force. But this time I don't have to suffer from oxygen starvation for long. He snaps my head back and I take a deep breath, pumping the cool air into my lungs.

"If you weren't such a cheap whore, I would definitely fuck you." Freezing. The voice is almost cutting, as if I could do something for my job. But that's not the case. I never had a choice. Zaret squats down, but I hardly notice it. The words hurt me. I've heard that too many times from men I've liked. But that's how it is as a prostitute. I'm never seen as a person, only my job is important.

"But that's the way it is, huh?" Zaret runs his fingers down my cheek and no matter how tender the touch, it only makes me panic. "You're nothing more than a piece of meat that satisfies men." He laughs softly while I can only shake my head jerkily. I don't want to hear what he has to say, just want to go home. But Zaret knows no such thing as mercy. He doesn't care that every word he says stabs me in the chest. "And that disgusts me," he whispers, and I can't help but whimper. I've heard that too many times.

And I'm so caught up in my sadness that I don't notice Zaret grabbing my hair tightly. Only when he roughly throws me to the side do I perceive my surroundings again. But too late, I bang my head on the street unchecked. And it is precisely this impact that causes the nausea to rise again. And the pain. I gasp, try to push myself up, but I can't. My head is pounding and my stomach is making me moan in agony. So I just lie there on the dirt-covered road. It does not matter. It just needs to stop hurting.

Only gradually do I regain a little more control over the dizziness. And when I tentatively open my eyes, the world no longer revolves around me. A shadow stands in front of me, but my vision is blurry. I want to say something, but only a croak followed by a moan of pain escapes my lips. Then the shadow turns away from me and leaves. At that very moment, I know it's Zaret.

****

I stagger along the streets. My fingers are red and what started out as a tingling sensation has turned into a pain that is taking over my whole hand. But that's nothing compared to the wound on the stomach. This makes my vision blurry. The stones of the road seem to merge into one another. As if the agony would rob me of all vision.

But that's not what keeps me groaning. Every step hurts. Every foot lift sends a pang in my lower abdomen that makes me think I'll never make it home on my own. But I have to escape the cold. Even if there is no warmth in my apartment, the thin wooden walls at least protect me from the wind. It seems to be getting colder every second. I am aware that this is just imagination. That weakness causes the cold to be felt more strongly. But it doesn't matter whether it's reality or not. There is ice in me, slowly making its way to my heart. And the worst thing is that I don't know where this inner coldness comes from. Is it because my money was snatched from me again because I'm hungry, or is it just because of the temperatures?

It could be all or none of it. But it scares me. Many people say that dying of sadness is not possible, that it takes more than this reason. I know it better. It's insidious. So slowly that the person hardly notices it. The heart beats slower, the tiredness increases, the tears more. And at some point it will be over. I've seen the decay, heard the sounds soaked with untold suffering - dried the tears.

It's hard to evoke those memories over and over again. Confronting my mother's death. I've never been able to process it - never really understood it. she left me alone Has given in to grief and it tears me up every time that I wasn't a reason for her to pull herself together. I needed her help with this. I was too young - too fragile. And the world is rough. Doesn't take age into account. To the experience. But what my mother managed to do even after her death is to give me strength. She showed me that giving up is not an option. Battle. Always. No matter how hopeless the situation seems. Otherwise I will suffer the same fate - become like them. There is always a door. Sometimes it just isn't visible.

And that also gives me strength now – strength that I urgently need. Because the icy air creeps under the huge hole in my dress and ensures that numbness slowly takes over all parts of my body. So I keep going. Step by step. Until finally the little hut appears in front of me. No windows adorn the area where I live. But I do not care. I don't need this either. In fact, it's actually quite pleasant. That's how I'm isolated. True to the motto: What I don't see doesn't exist.

And so the sight makes my heart beat a little calmer while I cover the last few meters. It's now more of a swaying than real walking and even standing up seems impossible to me. But all of a sudden I don't think it's that bad anymore. If I just get into my room, then everything will be fine.

And just before I open the door, I stop again. there is someone behind me I know it. I've been followed all the way. He lurks in the dark. Zaret. He always does that when I'm hurt worse. He never helped me. But I never needed that either. Even though I may be a woman who submits to men, who allows herself to be blackmailed, I don't want handouts either. Many of the prostitutes sit on the main streets during the day and beg. I never did. A line I never want to cross. Even if my job is viewed by many as inferior, I see it differently. I work for my money - I do something for society.

"Good night, Kalota," it sounds behind me, and now I know he's leaving me alone. So I step inside, while again puzzling over why he's following me. I've asked many times, but never gotten a serious answer. "A shepherd tending his sheep. That's the only answer I get. But in the end it doesn't really matter. It's good to know that in an absolute emergency there is someone who would help me.

Once I've quietly closed the door, I don't bother with it anymore. I have to take care of the wound. And so I take off my coat and dress first. Even in the darkness you can see that even my corset is soiled with blood. This is not good. It is too much. At least that's what the darkness makes it seem. i need light So I light a candle and briefly consider lighting a second one, but quickly dismiss the thought. I have to be economical with the few utensils. Even with those that actually only cost a penny.

I sigh softly and want to warm myself briefly at the candle. I know that I should treat my wound first. And just to confirm this thought, a tremor comes over me. And this uncontrolled shaking causes an unspeakable pain. I groan in desperation, wanting to calm down, but it doesn't work. There is a searing pain that takes me and robs me of all sanity. And so I only hear the slamming of my door, but I can't deal with it. God, it hurts me so much. This is not good. Something must be badly injured. Otherwise I would somehow keep control of it, but I can't do it. My legs don't want to hold me anymore. Leaning on the table, I hear a voice, but all I hear is murmuring. Mumble, which is lost in the rushing of the blood. I will fight. gotta fight But I can't. The weakness is too strong. Stars appear in front of my field of vision and before I realize what is happening I fall. I hit the ground hard and struggle not to lower my lids. But I am so tired. Maybe I should sleep for a while? Just rest for a little while, I'm sure I'll feel better afterwards.

Someone is bending over me, but it's all so blurry. So I blink, wanting to at least see who's there. This is important. It could be someone who wants to hurt me. And this thought is enough for me to see clearly again. A round face is recognizable. Hair combed back. The nose too small for the plump cheeks. My pimp. pete And with that, I drift into the black. He's not dangerous. He is not Zaret.

So I let myself be taken in by the blackness and all the tension goes out of my body. Everything seems so dull. So beautiful. There is no more pain. This is only subliminal - hardly audible.

****

But I don't faint. There's a fog - a damn thick fog. But not only. I still hear murmurs. There is light - light that keeps disappearing into darkness. And suddenly there is pain again. These hit me with full force. I want to scream - want to show that it hurts me. But no sound is heard. At least as far as I can tell. There's someone on my lower abdomen. Something is smeared into my wound. god it's on fire Pete has to realize that it doesn't help. And then there's the blackness again. The next time I hear something, the pain is gone. The agony is over. The tiredness also seems to have disappeared. And so I tentatively open my lids. Despite the sparse light, it is uncomfortable

And when I think that I'm finally able to open my eyes completely, water hits me. Ice cold water. I gasp and immediately sit down. Pete is standing in front of me and is just swinging the bucket again. That's enough to make me back down. I quickly push my butt across the floor and the second gush of cold water is pumped out of the bucket. But this time only my legs are hit and I make a tight sound. The water is damn cold. My skin immediately turns red and goosebumps appear. "Damn Pete. What shoud that?"

And that seems to be enough to keep him from swinging the bucket at me again. "Guess what? You should wake up!" He eyes me and I wrap my arms around my legs as a chill washes over me.

"It seems to have worked," he adds, and finally puts the bucket on the floor. But I hardly notice it, just blow out my breath in disbelief. Actually, I should squash him or take the bucket and show him how it's what it's like to be doused with cold water. But I'm cold. So I should dry myself off before I show the garden gnome what I think of his action. And even as I'm hoisting myself up, I realize that I'm I'm no longer in pain. Immediately I look at my lower abdomen. A cloth is covering the wound and that forces me to sit down again. "Did you patch me up?" Not only that changed during my fainting. I no longer wear a corset. My breasts are exposed. It doesn't cause me any embarrassment,

"Now don't act so shocked! Of course I have." There's defiance in the voice. This only confuses me even more. Pete has never taken care of his prostitutes' health and can receive suitors. And so I look at him, want to say something, but he forestalls me: "I don't want to know where you got the injury from. But it's pretty deep. I had to get the healer Magda to fix it she's patching you up," he babbles while hurrying through my room and stopping at my closet. Normally I would probably throw him out in a high arc. After all, I'm free. But I'm too taken aback. And so I just watch as he opens the closet and bury my face in my palms. My head is spinning and I have trouble concentrating.

"But she did it again. Ah, what would we poor people do without them." The fact that he calls himself poor only makes me snort. If I had as much money on my hands as Pete, I would never have to go hungry again. Or could I can afford wood for the fireplace. And while Pete rummages through my things, I look longingly at the stove. It was used once during the time that I can call this one-bedroom apartment my own. Wood costs money - money, which I don't And the forest next to the city is too dangerous. That's where the outcasts lurk. Those who are wanted because their cruelty can hardly be surpassed. Criminals. Murderers. People who threatened the king or the priests. Those same people that I never want to meet.

But I shouldn't bother with that either, because slowly seeping through the morass of the unconsciousness still lurking in my bones that something is wrong here. pete is here He fetched Magda. get me doctored I do not know that. Something is happening here that eludes me. That's enough for me to get up.

"Pete, what's the point of this?" My voice is lurking. That's not good. With Pete, kindness is always more efficient than anything else. But I can't give that a thought right now. And as if he was dreading that question, he stops midway in motion. But he doesn't turn around. Talking doesn't seem to be his strong suit anymore, even though he just bombarded me with his stupid gossip. But that only strengthens the queasy feeling. There's a reason for his appearance, an important one.

"Pete!" I yell and he actually winces. And finally he seems able to look at me. Very slowly he turns around and scratches the back of his head a little helplessly. But that doesn't make me feel sorry. No. It does for the complete opposite.

"Listen, Kalota. I didn't even know about it until a few hours ago." Pete puts his hands up reassuringly, but he can skip that too. I should be grateful to him. So am I. Really. But I can tell him that later. Now first of all it's important that he speaks up. So I take a step towards him and square my shoulders. Pete is small - smaller than me. He's not your typical pimp. Not one who uses intimidation to keep his worker. That's why I chose him at the time. Normally he makes up for the lack of a menacing manner with his outgoing manner. But now that's gone. And so he even seems ashamed to me. Like he's embarrassed about what he has to say.

"What didn't you know until a few hours ago?" I take another step towards him and he stamps his foot once on the ground. "Oh, what the heck. You'll find out soon anyway." And what he says makes me stop and look at him expectantly. "One of the wealthy is looking for a prostitute. His tester is coming any minute," he murmurs, and right now it's all slipping from my face. Damn. I know the procedure. One of the rich is bored in the marriage and is looking to us for a change. However, since these people have a reputation for lose, they usually send out so-called testers, who first check whether I meet the requirements. The testers are usually rough in their actions, but I know that. That's nothing new. But what's new is,

And with the very thought I startle. I immediately run to a dresser in the other corner of the room and grab a spoon from the drawer. I can't afford mirrors and it's actually not necessary. After all, we have one in the brothel. Never take customers home. Never. But I can't do anything about that now. So I look at my distorted image in the silver. But what can be seen there makes my heart sink one station deeper. My otherwise blond, wavy hair lies flat on my head. Of course, after all, these are soaked with water. But that's not all. My make-up has run completely. So I grab the first rag I can find and wipe my face. Immediately my freckles are even more visible and I lower the spoon resignedly.

"Pete, why didn't you say that right away?" I murmur, looking around desperately. It will be immediately clear to everyone that I live on the absolute subsistence level. My mattress is on the floor and the covers on it already have big holes in them. Even the ones that me had a hard time filling are now open again, but I don't have the money to do anything about it.

"You passed out," he reminds me, but I hardly notice. That would have been my chance. A fairly regular customer who can also pay. That would have solved all my problems. But the way I look - the way my home looks , I'll be glad if he doesn't turn right back on his heel, and with that very thought the door opens.