Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu

Day 35 – The girl made of glass ( literary vomit – part II)


This story begins here, so let’s pick up from where we left off.

Sometimes, a glass bottle won’t break when it smashes into a hard surface or falls onto the brick floor; sometimes, all it takes is a small crack or flaw and everything is lost and turned into an impossible to solve puzzle. That’s how she felt each morning and each damned day. Crying was not enough anymore; crying was only a sweet routine, which cleansed her eyes and caressed them like the softest blanket, embracing her eyelids into a deep sleep. She had no name. Or, did she? She could be anybody and still she was no one and no one knew of her; until I found her.

She was sitting in the corner of the street, filling her lungs with little clouds of smoke, smiling disgusted at each client who passed her on their way into the strip club. Each and every one of them touched at least a piece of her at some point and they never looked into her eyes. From the other side of the street, hidden in the safety of my car, I was watching her. She didn’t seem interesting at first but after a while, her human details began to surface. Brownish hair, bright and glossy, maybe from all the products used, big blue eyes and a soft chin, outlining her feminine look. She seemed normal; a normal stripper, having a smoking break, only to go back inside and strip again until the morning light would reveal her true flaws. I wanted to leave and push her image out of my head, but something told me to get out of the car and ask her for a light. I did exactly like the voice commanded me; got out of the car, crossed the street and after a polite “Hi!”, I asked for a lighter. She took a small, pink lighter from an invisible pocket and she handed to me, avoiding my eyes.

“-Are you ok?”, I asked, trying to establish some sort of eye contact.

“- I’m fine. What the fuck do you care?”

About the author

Ela Vasilescu

I’m a writer based in Florence, Italy.

Human nature inspires me, different cultures, traditions, folk stories and the differences which make us unique. Documenting stories is a privilege, a glimpse into humanity, an unforgettable experience, one which I embrace and honour every day.

If you have a story twitching in the back of your pocket, one that is ready to be told, shared and heard, chances are I will be ready to listen; so don’t hesitate to send me an email.

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Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu