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All created stories have to follow . We do not allow any sexually related material. The Doll Palace will be enforcing this rule and completely blocking access to the accounts that disregard our policy and create sexually oriented stories.
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Hi, my name is Sheeta
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 | Sexless in America. |
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 4.92 with 12 vote(s)
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| Created: 2008-10-10 08:55:28 |
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I had to write a creative essay for History class. I think I did an okay job. We had to write about a photo of an immigrant and make up a story for them. My teacher wanted it to be sad for some reason. Anyways;
My real name was Antonietta deGaulle but everyone who knew me called me Aldo.
Let me tell tell you of my life, of my pain, of my hardships, let me tell you of my escape; death.
The year was 1934. I was thirteen, an only child, when my family decided to move to America, the land of golden opportunity. Fear had driven us to abandon the beautiful land of our birth, France. Fear of an attack from Germany, an attack that came a few years later which led to World War Two. Regretfully we packed all our belongings, which had surprisingly fit into two moderately large burlap sacks and boarded a ship dubbed Le Mort'. The death ship. Quite a fitting title considering how many of its passengers died on the journey. My parent's included. I watched from the deck as the corpses of my mother and father were wrapped in white cloth and pushed over the edge of the boat into the hungry black waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Their bodies quickly consumed by the lapping tongue of the deep, morbidly welcoming abyss.
The rest of the passage went by almost unnoticed, other than the sharp pains of hunger I felt nothing. I was numb from the death of my parents. The realization took a while to set in, I never got over it. I felt abandoned, hopeless, useless. My future seemed dark as I finally stepped off into the port, leaving Le Mort' behind me. It was only after I'd gotten lost in New York that I realized I'd left all my belongings on board the ship.
I had nothing except for the tattered, smelly clothes I was wearing.
I wandered for days trying to find some way to survive. I eventually lost sense of how long I'd been in America.
Despair consumed me. How long could I last without food, without proper shelter, every attempt I made to survive was failing. I was nothing but a failure, surely doomed to die in a damp alleyway in the company of insects.
Who'd take in a girl to work for them, no one. To humanity woman were nothing more than servants, they clearly could not compete for a job that men wanted.
While walking rather aimlessly down a crowded street I noticed a shard of glass in a street gutter. I stop and simply stared at it for a while, an idea formed in my mind. My feeble hands undid the cloth that held my long hair together, I wrapped the cloth around a side of the sharp glass so I wouldn't cut up my fingers as I sliced off large pieces of my auburn hair.
I managed to nip bits of boys clothing from hanging clotheslines. When I had a complete outfit I clumsily dressed myself and discarded my old clothing.
While walking early the next morning, the first morning of boyhood I decided on a new name. 'Aldo' A simple French name for a simple French boy.
My outlook on life brightened, I had a tiny glimpse of hope, hope that wouldn't last.
There would be countless battles for a daily job as a newsie. I'd go days without food then finally get a break.
I didn't much mind standing on a crowded New York corner shouting "Extra, EXTRA" to the passerby's. I was better off than most. At least some nights I knew I would eat.
Weeks dragged by, more boys lined up for the job I needed, the job I relied on. Which meant I went longer without food, my body grew gaunt, bones protruded from the stolen clothes that had once fit.
Once in a while I was lucky enough to get a few raw left over's from a butchers shop.
I didn't ask where the meat came from, or what type of 'animal' it was, I was thankful that it was only slightly rancid. The smell however did remind me of my passage on Le Mort'. Of the stench of the rotting bodies that were pushed into a dark corner of the hull, left to rot while rats had their fill of the disease infested flesh.
I'm not sure if what I ate made me sick, or if it was the lack of constant food. I remember rolling onto the dirty ground, hands around my stomach as I vomited whatever was left in my bowels, I fell asleep on the ground soaking in my excretion. My bile stuck to my clothes and dried on my skin.
Days passed, my sickness worsened.
I felt so weak, it took all the strength I had left to remain alert. My skin clammy, my eyes heavy, my throat raw. Each time I inhaled my lungs caught fire. I weakly fought the urge to collapse into myself. To pass out, but I had to stay awake, if I fell asleep I could easily choke to death.
I couldn't walk, I couldn't stand, I could barely lift my head to look at the stars at night. They were my comforting angels, they reminded me of what seemed a past life, my home in France. I watched them glisten in the murky sky. I listened to them sing to me then I gave in.
I could sense it, the release. The pain of every wound and sore had suddenly ceased to exist. I felt nothing, the need for any type emotion seemed unneeded now. I'm not sure anymore when I died but I remember looking down at the broken, sexless, body that I once inhabited. It looked more like a rag doll than a human. Its body much to frail looking, the arms and legs limp, the face surreal. There were no traces of the pain I'd felt, the hunger I endured, the tears I cried. I would be another of the seemingly countless orphans who would pass through history forgotten. |
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it's awful how many died on the voyage to america