City of Sin

My city of sin is built. It is populated with souls whose servitude is drawn in shades of grey. It is a city whose gates are never closed. It is a city of trade.

Anything can be yours, but everything has a price.

Sometimes the price overt. A kissing booth promise for a quarter.
Sometimes the price is implied. Expensive gifts for the pleasure of your company.

I deal in both. I make it clear the cost, but the price is deceptive. I leave you unaware of just much I am taking until it is too late. I draw you in so tight that it is almost painless to let go (just another strip of pain when pain has become an intimate friend). I tell you the price and whisper the words along the insides of your wrists. I write the bargain struck in indelible marks scratched deeper then skin.

I want you to know how far it is you will go, because each step is another step towards me. When you can’t see the bottom, I make you believe you are walking on a bridge of glass. But the truth is you are walking on faith alone.

I want you to know how far it is you will go, because when we reach the end, I want it to be in full knowledge of the path you took. Each choice you make is another link in the chains around your wrists and throat. But I don’t have to present you with real choices, just the illusion of them. I drew this maze, painted the dead-ends to look like possibilities, one less attractive than the path I walk, and then made you believe it was your decision.

At some level you know all this. And yet you let me do it anyway. Because you want something as well, or this would not even be possible. You want me to slip the weight from your shoulders, the gauze from your eyes, the clothes from your skin. You want me to convince you that the price is worth paying, no matter how high. You want more then permission, you want direction.

I know this. I learn how much I can take and ask for just a bit more than that. I want it to hurt because then you will never forget.

I am not a nice man.