She was young, she was afraid and furthermore she was poor. She wanted a way out; out from her previous life. She wanted to get away from her alcoholic father and her abusive mother. And so, she ran. Ran till her feet got tired and her soul was lost, and after all her running she found an elderly lady Denise. Denise took this young girl back to her house, where she met a dozen other girls; all young and beautiful, all happy and content. She was in a strange place with strange people, but she had never felt so alive and welcome. She craved what the others had… ‘happiness’. Years passed and she was happy- so to say- through the years she learned their trade. A harlot was respected only by her kind, and given her knowledge of this fact she still continued as finally she had ‘a kind’.

Fourteen long years, and three miscarriages had passed and she was still a whore. She was sadder than she was back then, but she believed she had no one else. She did have her dead babies- who were not so dead back then- She was ‘forced’, she justified. But was she?
She cried each night for the loss of her unborn. But what was the use? Each night she was the young girl who came to a brothel looking for happiness, and during the day she was Annabel, the harlot beauty whom all the men wanted.

Another few years passed and here she was; a woman of thirty with no qualification and no family -disregarding her colleagues from the brothel- and no emotional stability.

She decided she had had enough. And so, with tears in her eyes, she ran. Ran till her feet were tired and her soul was lost. She ran till she reached the bell-tower that her father worked at; here she stopped. And in the darkness she saw a shape, she saw something hanging. She climbed up the stairs and stopped halfway as she saw the face of the hanging figure. She saw her father’s long dark face, expressionless and void. She said no more and did not weep. She just lay there and hoped for death.