Picture This

Picture this.

A woman sits on the ground, in the dirt of the street. Her dress, once a pristine white gown that made her glow with beauty, admired by each guest at her wedding; once clean and lovely, but now torn, and so matted with filth that it has become a dusty grey, and the unblemished white from earlier times cannot shine through. Her gloves are torn, and blood has soaked through the tops of some fingers, where scrapes have not had the time to heal before re-opening. One of her shoes has lost the high heel that gave it such elegance and the other looks as though the heel is ready to fall off soon enough. Her veil, still attached to her hair, trails in the mud, and her hair itself has become matted with oil and sweat. The make-up on her face once immaculate and beautifying is now smeared, and streaked across its canvas.

The previously shining and excited eyes of this bride have now dulled, and her expectation – indeed, hope – of a wonderful future has left her for a desire to simply make it through to the next day. She clings to life because she has nothing else left to take comfort in. Her daily mantra is “But I’m still alive.”

Sometimes, on those days when she has the time to think, between attempts to survive however she can, she remembers the times when it wasn’t this bad.

She can remember the day that she walked down the aisle. Her groom waited for her with a smile on his face and tears glistening in both eyes with the joy that she was to be his. Their sight of one another did not waver as she approached him, and their hands met.

She can remember prior to that, his gentle courtship of her. Her family knew him well, and he was often invited around to their home and took part in their meals, even before she took an interest in him. He was patient, and it took her some time to come to know him well enough to become fond of him. It was the development of their personal relationship, rather than just his as a ‘family friend’.

So, when she had walked down the aisle towards him, she could see the only reason it took her so long to get to this stage was because of her persistent stubbornness in taking so long before speaking to him. Had she really believed at first that she was too good for him?

But now, sitting in the dust and dirt of the street, those are only memories. Other memories come to her too, of course. Memories of the celebrations after, and of her pride and their love in being together for the rest of their lives, and the joy it brought their families. And then of the next week, when she found herself kissing another man.

She had allowed herself to be undressed and used, time after time, ignoring the pangs of guilt as she accepted man and man. Each time she had returned home, checking that her make-up was still in place, and expecting that her husband knew nothing. It wasn’t until one day, when she had looked up and seen the tear tracks falling from his eyes that she realised he had known all along – she had just been too afraid to even look at him.

Through the guilt and horror of her realisation, she had fled without a word. She had run to the home of one of her lovers, and begged to be able to stay there, just so she wouldn’t feel her husband’s knowing gaze upon her. Her lover took her in, and took full use of her, but after a week had passed, he had tired of her, and so told her to find somewhere else to live. When she tried to return to his home he locked her out.

She had travelled then, going into to the houses of old lovers and new lovers, staying for as long as they would have her. The momentary pleasures these men brought her were the only way she could disguise or hide the sorrows of her heart. It seemed that as each lover had kicked her out of his home, a new name was given to her.

Unfaithful.

Unwanted.

Selfish.

Slut.

Bitch.

Whore.

Waste of space.

Prostitute.

As each lover kicked her out, she had fewer and fewer places to go, and so now she has nothing to live with – no food and no shelter. All she can do is sit on the side of the road and beg. On those days when begging doesn’t get her enough to buy a loaf of bread, she sells herself, and remains alive on the outside to hide the hollowness inside her time-worn shell.

Her veil hangs in the mud, but what does she care, so long as she has life to cling to?

On those days when she has the time to think, she finds herself casting bad traits onto her husband. If her current state is his fault rather than hers, she might be able to fix it herself. If she faces her actions and accepts that it’s her fault, she will only have herself to blame for everything, and then what will she have left?

It is a hard day. She only has two coins from begging and pleading with the people on the street as they pass by her. A shadow falls over her, and she begins to mentally prepare herself for the acts she must commit to stay alive.

A hand reaches down in front of her, palm facing upwards as though to help her to her feet.

She cannot help but gape at the hole in her customer’s hand. Soon she comes to her senses, knowing that if her stares make the customer uncomfortable she might miss the opportunity and the money it would provide. She averts her eyes from his hand by looking into his face. Her words falter.

There before her stands her husband. The pained expression on his face looks more like pity than the revulsion she would have expected. She sits, opening and closing her mouth, unsure of what to do and all too aware that he’s found her sitting on the streets and prostituting herself just to eat.

“It’s for you,” he says. She looks back down at his palm, and the circular hole driven straight through it. “Come with me and be clean once again.”

Her heart trembles with mingled feelings of longing and disbelief. She had been unfaithful to him, and had broken the vows of their marriage time and again, but he still called for her to join him.

Her excuses come pouring out of her mouth, claiming her sins as her sanctuary, and telling him that he’s a fool if he wants to take her back.

His eyes have been tearful in joy and in sadness, and now he waits – just waits – for her to finish with her excuses. The words stop, and she listens for his rejection, only to be shocked yet again.

“I love you. More than anything in the world. Return to me and I will forget all that you have done, and I will just be happy that you are mine.”

This time it is her turn to cry. She breaks out in sobs, shoulders heaving and tears falling down her face. Passers-by who have not seen the whole spectacle stare at the scene she creates, but keep moving. It is not their concern as to what has made a prostitute weep.

Her husband kneels down beside her, and puts his arms around her.

Picture this.

The bride is you.