The Harlot

A Story by Paul Pisacane

My head lies gently on her lap as I sob another moment away. Misery has reaped through my cortex again and this time I can’t control it. I take a look up every now and then to a face of complete apathy. There’s a huge lack of sympathy in her eyes, but I don’t care. I only need her for the concept, a performance would’ve cost too much. Now a days I can hardly afford these repeated “therapy” sessions for I can’t seem to grasp a well standing job. I understand the economy is weak, but I feel pathetic knowing I’m on the bottom. The lack of money and therapy isn’t doing me well. I’ve been in this state my entire life and you’d hope I would’ve learned by now, but as the years roll by I find myself falling more and more into it. After a while you just stop trying to get up because that’s too much effort. You’re too comfortable here.