The rusty metal frame groaned as she sat up. A loose spring poked her thigh. She lingered, savoring the distraction. Anything was better than lying on that God forsaken mattress, wallowing in your own sweat and juices. She shuddered at the thought. How many other girls had been thrown down on some stained cot, hoping to fuck their way into a meal a day? Her nose wrinkled in disgust, both at the scandalous behavior and the low price their dignity sold for. 'You're better than those other whores,' she lied to herself, 'You're doing it for a cause. You don't come cheap. You are a champion of the greater good. You--'
"You're too damn skinny." Theron ignored the Border Patrol officer, brushing off his words as one would an errant strand of hair. She was almost done. All that was left was to trudge through the post-coital chit chat, grab the goods, and go. A few years ago she might have snapped back a barbed insult and the entire ordeal would have been forfeit. Now she knew better. 'Just stare at the wall. Let it roll off you like rain. Smile when he asks. Laugh at his stupid jokes. Make him feel in control. Make him feel powerful.' A hand groped around for the dirty rags they used as clothing. Pants, socks, and under garments were easily located, but her shirt had been kicked under the bed. With a sigh, she got on hands and knees to recover the lost article.
"Look at you! Got bones where your ass should be." An exaggeration, but there was some truth to it. Her ribs rippled beneath paper thin skin and the spine jutting out of her back was hard to miss. What could you do? There was never enough food to go around. All proles looked emaciated. They were emaciated. Every now and then you'd find an old magazine with pictures of full figured women and muscular men. She wondered how they got so plump. The older proles swore that everyone used to be fat and happy, just like the Aristocrats. Theron found that one hard to believe. Having been born into rez life like so many others, she knew nothing of the before times. There was a new generation of children and young adults that thrived under the terrible living conditions forced upon them, if only because they knew nothing else. It hardened them into survivors.
Shaking her head to clear the mind, she focused back on the task at hand. "Where are the things I asked for?" Now fully clothed and ready to leave, she put on her frosty demeanor. It was the only armor she had. "You told me you had access to medicine and the stuff on the list I gav--"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, sweet cheeks. What, I don't get the girlfriend experience?" Theron narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She didn't understand what he meant. Relationships weren't what they used to be. They had devolved into business arrangements with a few benefits on the side. Boyfriends and girlfriends didn't exist. There was no time for love. "Jesus. I was joking. Here, you frigid bitch." He opened a drawer in the nearby dresser and tossed her a burlap sack. The muffled tinkling of glass against glass made her eyes go wide, but luckily nothing was broken. She stuffed the supplies in her backpack and marched towards the door. No goodbye. No thank you. This was a trade. Nothing more.
Save for the few inquisitive glances as she slipped through Border Patrol territory, her travels were largely ignored. Nobody bothered her as long as she kept her head down. Besides, her face was a familiar one.
Theron, a personal prostitute of the high ranking officials in the Bourgeoisie.