My story. He wants to hear my story. What I felt in this moment. Or in this other. Whom I felt on me. Or inside me. When. Or where. He wants to hear my story. Now. And I’m not prepared to speak. I had imagined this situation to take place. Some day. In my mind. But I didn’t prepare myself to speak. To him. Or to anyone else. So I need to leave the room. They can’t help.
I sit in this small room that has been given to me by the NGO’s representative. She is some years older than and has left the scene some time ago but still, in her face, I can read my story. Her actors may be different to mine but don’t they act the same anyway?
Last night, I’ve watched television. I came here like 8,9 years ago but this was the first time to see real images, no porn. They talked about actresses and singers I’ve never heard of – Lawrence, Johannson, Duff, Spears. I shouldn’t be surprise that I don’t know them. Because when was the last time for me to go to the movies? Or check for music?
These women have been taken away their private nude photos – made for entertaining their boyfriends and husbands, to spice up what has been fight for some time ago, to – I don’t know what for. And do I want to know, or to see?
They say that it has been their fault. Since who uploads these images on smartphones anyway?
They say that these women have lost their innocence before they turned into victims.
So did I loose my innocence before I turned into a victim?
I don’t say this to the young policeman now sitting in front of me. But maybe my face has given me away. I don’t know.
When I finally speak, telling him when and where I was born, I see how it works inside himself. Burying out former knowledge from school. Bulgaria – the capital? How far is your hometown away from Sofia? He finally came up with Bulgaria’s capital. Not that it is of great importance. I could be born here and there, sooner or later.
Should I tell him that I wasn’t taken away by a loverboy? That I wanted to work as a whore, prostitute, Nutte, Schlampe (ever counted how many names I was baptized when I crossed the border?) when I came here? That I had fun sleeping with men, to support their orgasm, to massage them?
But when did it change? When did it hurt the first time, when the last time? Or when did the drugs come on? Or did they even come in, maybe I was weak even without them, without being beaten unconscious?
I look at his face, innocent, and I begin to tell my story. But which one? The real of the faked one? Which one do you want to hear? Which suits better to your imagery?
The prequel to “Song Title Challenge: ‘Sexual Healing’ (Marvin Gaye)”: