Daniel Hudson

Daniel Hudson

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  • Daniel Hudson
    Published about a year ago
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    The woman fell down on the bed as soon as the front door closed. The last client had been rough; he had hit her a little too hard, and now she had a small bruise on her cheek. She lit a cigarette and spat into the mold-ridden sink that occupied her bathroom. She looked at her face in the mirror. It was an old face, a face ridden with guilt and broken promises, with abuse and regret. She picked a scab on her forehead and the dead skin fell into the sink, followed by a small drop of blood. She picked up the towel resting on the toilet, examining to make sure there were no suspicious substances on it as she wet it and pressed it to her face. A flick of her finger landed a clump of ash onto the old carpet, and with that she strutted over to the kitchen with a sigh.