“It can’t be easy living day-to-day without knowing if you’ll eat.”

That explained her reasons for resorting to prostitution. The difference was that her mother did so to keep her three daughters fed… we barely made it, even with us doing half the town’s laundry…

“They already think I’m a whore,” Clara said.

With that she sat on the floor, where the bed she shared with her sisters had been. More memories of her all too brief childhood resurfaced and put a smile to her face. She used that positive energy to help her mend her mother’s dress…

It took more effort to find a needle and thread than it did the dress. All the while her clients were making their rounds, hoping for more than a passing glimpse. The idea of living off the proceeds of sex caused her tummy to fill up with bile… or is it because of my empty stomach…

Clara burped, the acid burning its way up through her oesophagus. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, which was happening all too often of late.

“At least I have my own voice to keep my company…”

That did not comfort her at all. She imagined herself standing in a cavernous space, unable to see more than a foot or two ahead. Every time she yelled out to see if someone was there, she was a variation of her voice echoing back… twisted and taunting…

“No.” Clara said. “Enough is enough.”

A quick search of the kitchen and pantry revealed that cupboards were nearly bare. The home was in such disrepair that she wondered if she would end up whisked away to Oz if a nor’easter hit. Her clothes were nearly rags… I doubt my clients really care about my attire…

“This isn’t life…”

Clara’s normally iron grip on her emotions broke entirely. As tears began to stream down her cheeks, she grabbed a shawl and huddled in the corner of her childhood home.

The room was bare, the contents likely sold off or burned to keep warm long ago. While she had a bed, Clara could not fathom returning to it… I’ll never feel clean again…

Clara remembered being a hunter for at least a decade. She served as a nurse in the Great War and by now would have been hunting on her own.

At this age, Clara had several kills under her belt. She lost track of the amount of times she nearly died. Death from exposure, evisceration, immolation, or from torture for information she never knew.

“I never looked this rough,” Clara said. “Even after hoofing it all night at some clip joint.”

It was said that prostitution was the world’s oldest profession… It clearly doesn’t pay enough here to live a comfortable life…

“The lack of wings is obvious.”

The most damning feature was her face. The Tower modified Clara to appear more appealing to those she hunted. Evelyn once commented that the angel was nearly perfectly symmetrical and caught the eye of those she crossed paths with.

There were flaws she did not remember. A mole near her nose on her right side, scars from what appeared to be acne… then there’s the  sunken cheeks and dark patches under my eyes…