The Fallen

The Fallen

A Story by Meghan Newton

(First part to my story. It's orientated around a prostitute and the theme of fate).

Rebelling against the inevitable is the most fearsome yet grandeur of battles. A conflict that requires wit and unwavering determination rather than brutality - in the absence of guns and grenades can such an accomplishment be reached? Achieving the unachievable? Every man, woman and child is apparently in an on-going fight with the inevitable -the unavoidable destiny-. It is considered that fate can either hold "doom" or "fortune", fate is determined by sheer perspective whether to be regarded as a "struggle" or an "opportunity".

For any man can flail his arms in the air and admit defeat. A self righteous judgement that there is nothing that we as mere mortals can achieve against our "fates". For is fate a decision or a written inescapable? Is there a chosen path that is selected by the Hiearchy designated for our specific deeds - the more endulgent path is reserved for the deserving?

Philosophical empty questions that are devoid of all literal meaning to the majority because "fate" and "destiny" are both concepts. A  general, abstract notion that can be bellittled and disregarded or worshipped and idolisied. Indeed, there is a heated debate surrounding "fate", "destiny" and the "inevitable" - our emotions, our connections, our dreams - the questions often pondered around are rooted to the meaning of our existences.

But I believe that destiny is NOT just an idea, a falocy, or an escape route to problems. I believe that destiny is a hidden-power of the Universe, a beautifully evil power that is capable of exposing a human to their utter-most fears or similarly, saving them from the deepest and most sinister of states. For I was once a prisoner of fate, but it was fate in the end that set me free before it brought about my untimely demise.


The regular feeling of repulsion at myself and my client arose in my physcial being as I gased at the sleeping man laying beside me. Disgusted I rose from my nemputal bed and put my clothes on; in the hope of concealing the remenents of my dignity. I didn't know what I was hoping to achieve. I signed over my dignity in blood and sealed it with a heroin kiss only six months ago.
Recognising the stir, my client awoke. His face produced a putrid smile as he began to sit up and move towards me. His hands gripped around me and pulled me down towards him. Either the man was delussional believing that I had acquired an emotional connection towards him during a drug-dazed session last night or he was chancing his luck to see how far I would go without pay. The latter seemed more likely, which was a usual client response. This was nothing out of the ordinary, and there was no need to panic... I repeated this to myself as I scanned his strewn clothes on the floor for potential weapons. I gently tugged away from his forced encasement to judge his reaction. A safety protocol of extreme proportions.

To be continued...

© 2012 Meghan Newton

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Added on October 14, 2012
Last Updated on October 14, 2012
Tags: prostitute, narcotics, fate, inevitable, fear


Meghan Newton
Meghan Newton

Scotland, United Kingdom


A Poem by Meghan Newton