Young Writers Society

I

This is the diary of I, a girl whose name is whatever you want it to be. Names are an impermanent label in this line of business; you are known by how you perform, every day of the week.
Some people call it a dirty business, and they’d be right. To labour in cheap, badly furnished bedrooms is to labour under no illusions; I knew where I was going right from the start. Stories of young, innocent girls seduced into selling their souls give charities someone to feel sorry for. Occasionally even someone to save. Too often, a pimp’s is not the only business-oriented mind behind a girl’s downfall.

There is an advantage to not having dreams. You find, after a while, that the places you have to be look better without an overlay of the places you could be. The hardest part is learning to forget a bright-eyed eighteen-year-old, fresh out of high school. She might be me. I wouldn’t bet on it anymore. Eighteen, sixteen, fourteen: age means nothing to you unless it means something to them; no-one minds if you look your age, as long as your age means good looks.
Night-time is the worst. The endless parade of mental ghosts come seeking solace at the witching hour, each one demanding their full portion of regret paid out in tears. Not ideal when you have to look your alluring, unrepentant best for all that seek to be served, dawn ‘till dusk. Whatever the hell my best amounts to anymore. ‘Practice makes perfect’ is a joke I hear tossed around, but the reality is that you don’t need any re-runs to get things right around here. It’s not like you’re given a choice, in any case; second chances are just wishful thinking. My days are spent wallowing in people who’ve missed their boats in life, and being wallowed in return; boats and bridges, I’ve burned them all if they offered a way back.

‘When rape is unavoidable,’ the Japanese say, ‘sit back and enjoy it.’ I’ve never had a problem with that, actually; it’s only thing that gets me through some of the worst days. But somewhere, still, in that part of me that won’t sit back, and never enjoys, there is a thought. Not a hope, for it is not allowed to be. Only an admission that once upon a time, this could have been avoided; that maybe someone out there has a name I can keep. An unuttered prayer, to whoever is still listening: may avoidance not yet have wholly avoided me.

This is the diary of I. What will you make her today?

I'm not to sure what to say about this. On one hand, it was an interessting (and, for me at least, a unique) read.
But on the other hand, I found it a kind of hard to follow and had to read through it twice to clearly get an idea. However, this doesn't seem to be so much to do with the piece being badly written, but rather it being written a tad above what I'm used too.

Oh, and you have a uesless end bold tag at the end of the piece...

Interesting....very interesting work of art. I love this. It dives in...the philosophy (?) of the oldest buisness in the world. WOnderful perception.

It seems uncanny that just as I've finished writing a research paper on "A Streetcar Named Desire" and Blanche DuBois, I stumble across this. According to my paper, you've done a darn good job getting into the mind of a prostitute, disturbing as it is. Well written too, although I do have a few nitpicks:

Not ideal when you have to look your alluring, unrepentant best for all that seek to be served, dawn ‘till dusk. Whatever the hell my best amounts to anymore.

This read awkwardly, in my opinion. Maybe something like, "Not ideal when, for all that seek to be served, you have to look your alluring, unrepentant best--whatever the hell that amounts to anymore," would fit better. Just a suggestion.

My days are spent wallowing in people who’ve missed their boats in life, and being wallowed in in return; boats and bridges, I’ve burned then all if they offered a way back.

Typos?

Other than that, you've captured the tragic life of a prostitute, their numbness to emotion, and pathetic hopelessness beautifully. Well done.