She realised why no one believed in her. They didn’t believe she didn’t have a price that wouldn’t be adequately measured in money. But it was true, in the end: her currency was quite another.
It wasn’t that money didn’t affect her or lead her to take decisions. It was more that money – its absence and slipperiness, I mean – slowly destroyed her and led her to not take decisions. And if they had wanted her to be more active in her process, they’d completely misunderstood her motivations; her personality; her soul maybe, even. Certainly her psychology.
Her price wasn’t measured in terms of the pressures moneyed wealth knew how to apply. Rather, it was determined by how much she believed what she was being told: how much she was able to believe in the morality, philosophy, sincerity and integrity another before her might be able to demonstrate.
She had, once upon a time, been fucked over – first, physically; second, financially – by the worst kind of overlording bastard she’d ever had the misfortune to come across.
And then when she discovered he’d done it with the full complicity of the state, the state she realised was no longer one she ever cared to love any more.
And then what that meant was that all kinds of love were no longer within her capacity to allow herself to feel.
And then what that meaning went and meant alongside was that she not only didn’t believe in her present but also began not to believe in anything the future might achieve.
She was a hollow shell of a human being: that’s what she’d become, at one with the evil in her past.
All that was left was the end when it would come.
Alone and without love.
Neither given nor expressed.
A life she wished she’d been in a position to forget: but neither forgetful was she nor forgettable her life.