Puta Zingara. Gypsy Whore. That’s what they called her. She knelt For hours til her knees were bruised, staring at the serene face of the Madonna. A non-believer, her mind was not in religious prayer but a persistent unholy meditation. The way she saw it, there were only two sins in this world, being born poor and being a coward.
She was at a crossroads. And both paths required courage. A higher dose of nerve than the one which propelled her hips to undulate infront of a crowd of leering men… a greater amount of fearlessness than what she needed as she deftly picked their pockets… And still, a larger measure of bravery than what had urged her to get back on her feet after they had desecrated her then innocent body.
But, which route was she going to take?
She placed a sun-bronzed hand on her firm stomach. She felt the life pulsating underneath her palm, beating in defiant protest… One drink of the strongly steeped concoction and it would be nothing more than a bloody stain… She walked away from the altar, the marble mercilessly cold against her bare feet, as though expressing its revulsion at her filth. She left the cappella with a strong resolve. The child was her talisman… No longer will she walk alone.
Down at the crossroads
Stray soul finds her companion
And was lost no more