She looks like an old prostitute, trashy and beautiful. If you look at her face, you can see all the lines that tell the endless stories of her suffering. She once was the centre of attention of all men, some have written books, poetry, and love letters to her. Others enslaved her, abused and raped her. Now they barely tolerate her presence.
My friend is old; some are waiting for her to die. I am also waiting for her to die, but deep inside, I hope that she would rise from her ashes, as glorious and powerful as ever, Living the life that she always wanted.
She loves the sun, the sea, the sand. She loves music and wants to dance, but her abusers always told her that dancing is wrong and so she ended up believing them.
Years ago, I decided to leave her behind; I couldn’t handle being around her, I thought I could have much better friends than her. In my judgmental eyes, she was mediocre and didn’t want to put any effort into turning her life around. I judged her so harshly forgetting what she went through, that she’s never got the chance to do what she wanted. She went from battle to battle; her whole life is a struggle for survival and freedom.
She has seen a lot of violence and blood in her life, so much that she became numb. A lot of her lovers, family, friends were killed in the cruellest ways. Now, whenever there’s a knock on her door, she doesn’t open, thinking that they’re going to kill her. She lives isolated from everybody else.
I have a friend; I don’t care about her, I hate her, I despise her, I love her.