Jacqueline

Jacqueline. Twenty one and works behind a desk. Her grey suit serves as her skin. It looks the same as everyone else around her. It camouflages her into the office walls, like a brand new piece of equipment, fulfilling the same old tasks. Her skin appears the same as others, but she has nothing in common with them. She is here by foolishness. They are here by ambition.
Her day ends and she steps into the damp darkness that greets her. Having long ago learnt to blot out the vulgar eyes that trace over her skin like dirty fingernails, she instead doubles her pace. Thin heels on uneven pavement. It is the nature of the world that a being of such beauty has admirers. But in preference, not such followers as those on rain stained streets lurking at the sharp edges of sullen street lights.
Her dark flat is right where she left it. As well as her regrets of past decisions and forks in roads that have led her to living such a soulless life. The snap of the light switch turing on feels like a broken bone, leaving her only short of distraught as to how many more times she can sustain the injury and force repair before all confidence in continuing seems lost. The television goes on and the oven warms up. She yearns for a holiday. She hopes for the holiday to find her. So that work can forever onwards only be done when needed for the money. S.H.