A Short Fanfiction by Ashley-Anne Douglas

Purpose

I was bored out of my wits, beyond my own conscience, knowing I should have stayed in at this unearthly hour. Midnight, the witching hour, I stalked off into the city, leaving my warm, safe hotel room for the bitter cold, crime infested streets.

I was irked, and lonely. My brothers provided me with little company, they were so exhausted tonight they’d fallen into deep slumber the moment their heads hit their pillows. I’d already done three rounds, checking to see if any of my family were awake but alas, they were fast asleep, all exhausted. Everyone was asleep save me.

I should have been asleep too, god knows, I needed the rest. But insomnia plagued me, resulting from all my worries and stress. Fatigue gnawed at me like a giant rat, yet whenever I lay my head down, sleep would not come and ease my troubled mind.

So there I was, it was forty past midnight, and I was walking around, wearing a thick leather jacket and a black Mizuno cap, my head low so no one would recognise me. My eyes were puffy and tired, and I could hardly keep them open, yet I knew if I headed back to the hotel and go to bed suddenly I’d be feeling a lot more awake – that was my luck.

I walked, keeping track of my whereabouts. I might have acted on impulse deciding that I was going to take a walk in the dead of night, with no bodyguards to protect me – it didn’t mean I was insane though. I kept note of exactly which streets I sauntered around, kept one hand on my phone in my pocket – the number on the phone was set to 911 and my finger was poised over the send button so I was ready in case trouble lurked around any corner.

God, I was so tired, and so alone. I craved company. I wasn’t likely to find it though, my friends were back in Tulsa, they would be sleeping by now, and those who wouldn’t be sleeping, I didn’t want to go calling and disturbing at this hour. I felt so alone, beaten, tired and wired all at the same time. I wished I could just give up on this damn career and go home – be done with it all.

I wandered around the streets, taking in the sights of the city under the lamplight. It was raining – a light drizzle – and the pavements and roads had taken on a dingy mirror effect, and the orange glow from the streetlights reflected upon them.

I hunched my shoulders up against the cold and continued walking until something made me stop in my tracks and stare.

I’d approached an old condemned chapel – the architecture was beautiful, but that wasn’t what I was really paying attention to. There was this girl, standing in the doorway of the chapel, trying to avoid getting wet from the rain. She was wearing a short black funfur jacket which looked to be more or less a size smaller than it should have been, the jacket was pulled tight around her, she hugged herself against the cold, her legs were exposed to the air, she was wearing the shortest pink satin skirt I have ever seen, my eyes travelled down her legs to her feet, she was standing in those horrid six inch platform heels. And my first thought about her was how the hell could she actually walk straight in those god awful things.

Her makeup was dramatic, exaggerating her age so much more. She looked tired and out of place, she wasn’t any older than I was.

It took a moment or two for it to finally dawn on me she was a prostitute. You can’t dress like that, standing around like that in the cold for no reason unless you had some sort of…reason. And her reason was obviously soliciting.

"Take a picture, it’ll last longer," she bitterly remarked to me. At first, I didn’t even realise what the comment was far, I hadn’t even realised I was staring. It was just one of those things you can’t help. Kind of like seeing a road accident and you don’t realise you’re watching, frozen in place.

"Huh?" was the only word I could manage at that time.

"Look, you either buy the goods, or beat it," she muttered.

I didn’t like her initial attitude. But I was intrigued. I had never been…approached by a…prostitute before. I wasn’t sure how to respond to her statement.

I couldn’t believe my own words when I finally spoke…

"How much?"

"Depends," she stated firmly.

I looked at her, "On what?" I asked, at that moment I really was not in the best mind to be fast enough to know what she was talking about, I was so tired. Usually I’m so sharp-witted, but at that point I was just so fatigued, I almost felt like a zombie. My mind was working in slow motion. That’s my lame excuse for asking stupid questions. That was the excuse for not understanding she was referring to what favours she would exchange for money.

"It depends on what you want," she gave me a look, I could tell she was wondering if I was really all there in the head, or if I was retarded. I felt so exposed to that look right then, and her hazel eyes pierced through mines.

"Uhm, well…do you have a list or something I can look at?"

D’oh. She must have thought I was on drugs!!!

"Look, its $45 for a blow, anything else is over $100…" she explained firmly.

I was intrigued. I won’t appear on a TV show for under $20,000. She’s selling her body for $100?? That just seemed so wrong. That seemed pretty…cheap for giving someone something that big.

However, whatever you may be thinking, I would never buy sexual favours from her. That wasn’t me. I was saving myself – my virginity – for that one special person. And it would be after my marriage. Not that I had anyone special in mind. And it’s not that I didn’t find this prostitute attractive. She was gorgeous but…the way she dressed put me off. I could never stoop so low as to pay for sex.

So why did I offer what I did next?

"I’ll give you…$400…if you spend the night with me," I offered.

I felt like I was losing my mind, I mean, was I INSANE?! What the hell was I gonna do with her when I got her to the hotel?

The girl didn’t seem to even have a second thought about it. This girl didn’t know who I was and she didn’t care, she didn’t know where I got that kind of money and she didn’t care. All she cared about was getting paid. She gave a nod to my offer. I prayed I wasn’t about to be arrested for picking up this girl. I could imagine that in a headline, it’d be bigger than that case with Hugh Grant. I could visualise the headline… ‘Isaac Hanson pays to be MMMBopped’. God that’s original.

And so we walked to the hotel, we had no conversation on the way, I just did not know how to start a conversation with this…girl.

I ignored the shocked expressions of the hotel staff as I led the girl into the rather reputable hotel. They looked at me as if I were bringing in a wet dirty dog after they had just cleaned the floor. She glanced at me as we entered the elevator, but she said nothing. Up to my room we went, and I led her inside and turned on the light, locked my door, glad I had a room all to myself – right then I was so glad I didn’t have to share a room – and that hopefully no one would ever find out I hired a prostitute just for company because I was bored.

The girl dropped her jacket in one easy movement, all she had under that jacket was the skirt and an undersized pink push-up bra. For a moment, I almost thought like a guy, but I didn’t want to see her body, I wanted her to cover up.

"Uhm…are you cold, do you want a sweater or something?" I asked politely.

Her eyes widened at me, how odd it must have seemed. As far as she was concerned I’d hired her for sex, and here I was offering to put clothes on her. She must have really thought I was on drugs at this point.

"Well?" I asked, I was eager to get something on her before I started to get too…excited.

"Okay…" she trailed off, she looked at me suspiciously, maybe thinking that it was some sort of freaky fetish – maybe she thought I liked to do it with clothes on? Who knows?

I grabbed a sweater from my suitcase and handed it to her. She slipped it on and pulled her limp dreadfully dyed red hair out from the collar. The sweater drowned her, she seemed a lot more petite close up than she had when I’d seen her at the chapel, and my having given her an XXL sweater didn’t really help. Why did I have an XXL sweater when I can take a medium, you might ask? Well, I have no idea either, I just like to be comfortable and large clothes are comfortable.

"What’s your name?" I asked finally, I hadn’t even bothered to ask since meeting the girl.

"Does it matter?" she asked, she sat down on the bed and began to take her horrid platforms off.

"Sure it does," I shrugged, "I don’t know what to call you."

She had begun to take on a somewhat concerned expression on her young face. This, I assumed was a form of suspicious behaviour amongst her less than humble clients. "Mary," she finally stated.

I looked at her, "I like that name," I admitted.

Again, the concern grew on her face, she sat there, looking at me, spread her legs so I could see, I swallowed nervously, and was about to plea she put her legs together, but she caught me before I could speak, "Are we going to do this or what?" She demanded worriedly.

"Do what?" I swallowed again.

"Screw."

I shook my head, she was quick enough to get up once I’d refused.

"If we’re not going to fuck then I don’t get paid, you’re wasting my time," she muttered, she began to pull off my sweater and I presume to head for the door.

"No, you’ll get paid…it’s just…sex isn’t quite…what I had in mind," I finally explained.

She looked at me, confusion growing in her wide hazel eyes, "What do you want me to do? Should I play with myself so you can watch?"

"No…I just want you to talk…"

"What? Like dirty talk? Is that what turns you on?" Mary asked, she stopped pulling the sweater off and just looked at me.

I kind of laughed, for a moment, I thought she was perhaps naïve…

Then I wondered…who was more naïve…her or myself? Wasn’t I the one who had brought a prostitute to the hotel and expected nothing more than talk?

I could see she was beginning to wonder if she would really get paid. I didn’t want to get her anymore uneasy, so I brought out my wallet and I laid out the $400 I had promised. "You get this…if you just stay…keep me company," he explained.

"Are you psycho?"

"No…I’m lonely," I explained. I didn’t expect her to understand how much pressure I was under, how alone I felt. I was too busy to have a social life, too busy to have girlfriends and friends and parties and fun. With my career in the way, a personal life was difficult. How could I expect her to understand I just wanted someone to talk to who wasn’t anything to do with the music business or anything else? I wanted someone to talk to and that was all there was to it.

"What’s the catch?" she picked up the money and began counting it, checking to see if it was the real thing or if it was counterfit.

"There’s no catch. We just talk."

"You can afford to throw $400 just to have a lousy conversation?" she demanded in an absurd tone.

"You can afford to sell your body for money," I pointed out.

She fell silent.

"No catches, no strings attached, no favours, no physical contact whatsoever, no surprises. Just talk. You have my word."

"You’re insane," she stated.

I laughed, "I’m used to hearing that," I admitted.

"Wouldn’t it be easier if I just blew you and left?"

"Nah, at the end of it, I’d just feel even lonelier, and even worse…" I admitted softly, I kept my eyes on her.

"It’d sure help you sleep though," she stated.

I looked at her. I wondered if she could read my mind. Could she see how tired I was? How did she know I had problems sleeping?

"How did you know that I had insomnia?" I asked of her.

"You look tired. Besides, if you didn’t have a problem sleeping I wouldn’t be here holding $400 with your request for just talk…"
Okay, I could tell she was a bit more perceptive than I had perhaps expected.

"Mary," I began, I sat down at the other end of the bed, I didn’t want to be too near her. "How old are you?"

"How old are you?" she repeated back to me.

"I asked you first…"

"You answer first then," she stated.

"I’m 19," I stated calmly.

"18," she shrugged, she hugged herself insecurely.

"You’re so young…what are you doing working the streets at your age, you should be in college or school or something," I admitted.

"I have no where else to go," she gave a shrug.

"Where are your family."

"I don’t have family…"

"Then…what happened to them, where are they?"
"My mom abandoned me," she shrugged. "I lived with my stepdad but he used to…" she trailed off, looking away for a moment as if she didn’t want to talk.

Oh but I wanted to hear. "He used to what?" I asked of her.

"He used to beat me and rape me…so I left."

She didn’t like getting raped…and yet she was selling her body for money. That makes sense…I thought.

"How did you get to be in this situation, I mean didn’t you go to a shelter or something?" I asked, I glanced at the mini-bar nearby and I got up and stalked over to it absently.

"I did, but it didn’t work out…"

"You have a pimp?" common knowledge, most pro’s have pimps, right? They need someone to help sell their stuff, they need someone to back them up, they need someone to bail them out if they get arrested.

"Yeah."

"He look after you?"

"If I make more than five hun a night, yeah," I shrugged.

"What if you don’t?"

"Then he threatens to kill me…he probably would too?"

I don’t know why but all of a sudden she started to open up to me a lot more. Maybe it was that I’m an understanding and open minded person and maybe it was just that – like a lot of people said – I had kind eyes and a sweet attitude.

"Do you ever actually see any of the money you make for sleeping with guys?"

"Hardly," She shrugged. "I make like…10% most of the time."

I turned around and looked at her, gaping. She slept with someone for $100 perhaps…and only made $10 out of it? That was…god, I felt so creepy. Would she ever see her $40 of the money I had just paid her for this conversation.

"God, Mary, get out of this NOW. You’re gonna die if you live this way," I muttered.

"Well what else am I supposed to do. Life isn’t as good for me as it is for you, fella, life for me isn’t fancy hotel rooms and money flowing out of a wallet and expensive designer clothes!"

I looked at her, did she know how hard I’d worked and how much I had been through to afford these luxuries?

"Want to know something?" I asked of her, I grabbed a Snickers bar from the mini-bar and tossed it to her, grabbed one for myself.

"What?" She asked, she unwrapped the Snickers.

"I’m a millionaire. Know why?"

"Why?" she rolled her eyes.

"Because even though I wasn’t who I wanted to be in the beginning, I only got to be who I wanted to be by doing something about it. You could do the same, hell, if I could do it, you could do it too."

She rolled her eyes again, "Easy for you. You have an education, right? You have smarts, and I’ll bet a family and friends, and people who’ll stand by you."

"I have an education sure, but education isn’t the only thing that helps you get where you want to be. You have to have confidence, and guts, and the initiative."

"Yeah, well I don’t have that," muttered, "and anyway," she frowned, I could tell her self-pride was trying to break through, "what makes you think that I don’t want to live this life?"

"The scars on your wrists," I answered softly.

She fell silent, pulled the sleeves to the sweater down over her hands, looked away from me.

"Mary, what’s holding you back?" I asked. I could kind of understand why she believed this was all she could do. She probably hadn’t had much support over the years. I was used to having my parents remind me I could do absolutely anything I wanted to if I tried hard enough and worked from my own initiative. I’d grown into the stage where I was taking my parents job and reminding my siblings of the same thing. And now, I was telling her. "There are organisations who can help you deal with your situation, organisations who help girls like you every day."

"I’ve tried."

"Try harder," I suggested. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to do with her, maybe I felt sorry for her, she’d been used, cheated, she had no one but a pimp. She’d end up catching SD and dying on a street corner eventually. It wasn’t my place to help her…but…I felt like if I didn’t, I’d feel guilt forever for not doing what I could.

She sighed, looked down to the floor, "It’s no that easy."

I remained silent for a long, long time, ten minutes perhaps. Trying to figure out what to do. When morning came, she would have to go, and I needed to find a way to help her so I’d know she was alright.

I finally came up with a conclusion.

"If I offered an easy alternative…would you take it?" I asked.

She looked at me, somewhat hopeful. I must have seemed too good to be true.

"My tour bus leaves tomorrow morning. We could use an extra hand around with moving equipment, helping us with the set…" I explained. "It’s hard work but it’s easy. You’d have to be willing to learn of course. You’d have to be willing to put up with a lot of weird hours and sleeping on a tour bus."

Okay, we did absolutely NOT need anyone else on the tour, I wasn’t even sure there was room for her but I was sure we could squeeze her in somewhere. I knew this girl needed a certain something, and I knew what it was. It was a purpose. And somewhat, at the moment I realised that, I myself wondered if the reason I had gone out was not to find company, but to perhaps find a purpose too.

I looked at her, waiting for her answer.

"You know…I don’t even know your name," she said timidly.

As I said my name, I thought of how low I had been feeling today. About how tired and worn and unlucky and alone I felt. When I looked at Mary I realise how truly lucky I was to have family, friends, and a career. When I said my name, I said it with more self-pride than I have ever felt in my entire life. "Isaac," I smiled. "Isaac Hanson."