She stares at herself in the cracked mirror, eyeing her disgusting makeup. The thick liner which burns her eyes, the rouge that highlights her cheekbones so her face is just broken angles, and the scarlet lipstick, smudged slightly at the edge, the unmistakable trademark of her profession.

Her fishnet stockings have a tiny rip and her top is too tight. The skirt she is even tighter, accentuating her curves.

She hates herself and everything she has to do, but there is no other way.

Her savings from the year ran out last night. She’d saved up penny by penny in a jar. But she had to buy a new gloves. It had taken every ounce of willpower to spend that money, but the old gloves had seven holes, and her fingers would have fallen off from the cold.

Today is Christmas Eve, and she has no money, but she wants to buy a present. For once she wants to ignore everything and everyone in the world and make herself happy. She deserves happiness. It’s been a very long time since she had any.

And so there is no other way.

She turns from the mirror, takes a breath, and walks out into the glaring lights of the bar. For a few moments, she is blinded. Wolf-whistles and jeers reverberate in the bar. She can feel the lusting eyes of the men in the room crawling all over her. She can almost feel their greedy hands ripping her apart. These are the men who think they own her and take pleasure in breaking down women like her.

She takes a ragged breath, trying to ignore the bile rising in her throat. She thought that she’d be used to it by now – the stench of alcohol, the taste of disaster stinging her tongue. After all, it has been six years since she fell into this world of lust and smudged lipstick and broken glass.

But she learned early on that it is impossible to get used to the depravity that she inhales in this place every night. Every time it is as if it were the first. She has nothing but shaky legs and lost eyes and fading strength.

But there is no other way.

• • •

She rushes into her dressing room after the ordeal is over, heaving breaths that threaten to rattle her frame. She claws at her chest to try and relieve the tension. She cannot breathe. The new bruises on her right arm are red in the faint light. He had gripped her hard as he pulled her down from the platform where she danced. His breath had smelled of burning alcohol. He did not stop until somebody – probably security – wrenched his fingers away. She fled, too scared to speak.

Too used to it to cry.

She has the money now. She will not starve. But there is something else that gnaws at her, threatening to rip apart her insides. She has been starved too long of respect to try and fill the gaping holes that famine has left unhealed.

She gathers up her belongings. It is late, and the stores are closing. If she wants a gift for Christmas, she’ll have to hurry, and so she runs out, a bag under one arm, smudged lipstick and ripped hope, trying her best to run with a broken heel. After walking for a while, she finds a store that is open. One store that keeps hope blooming in her.

It is run by an old man. It has what she needs, and she rushes in without a thought. She is relieved to see that there are a few other customers, even at this hour. The store is not well-lit, but that does not mean she cannot feel the looks she’s getting. She knows people whisper at the sight of her. About how she is cheap and disgraced. About how her skin is marred by the fingerprints of the men who touch her. She no longer has the courage to scream that she is not what they see. She is so much more than this.

• • •

The old man peers at her suspiciously. He has no kindness to spare for a woman like her. He wants to close up shop. He has a dinner waiting at home for him – chicken spiced with thyme. But this woman is keeping him here.

He knows she probably spends her dirty money on drugs and snorts them under a bridge somewhere. He wants nothing to do with a wretch like her.

Suddenly, there is a crash, and he realizes that she has knocked over a rack of clothing. She is looking around wildly, her trembling fingers trying to pick up the clothes.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is barely audible, raw with struggling courage. “I’m so sorry.”

“Get that to the way it was,” he thunders.

He finishes totaling the profits for the day and contemplates locking the wench in the shop. The last time he’d seen her was when she’d scurried to the dressing rooms. He grumbles, but is distracted when another customer walks up to the counter. He is slightly surprised and pleased all the same.

He had not noticed her enter, and he chastises himself for not getting the bell fixed. He hurries over to her, smiling, eager to please. She is a beauty. Her brown hair frames her face wonderfully. She is dressed in a long coat and black gloves. She holds a bag and smiles at him.

He melts the moment she does. A tiny dimple dances in her chin. She reminds him of his daughter, who is studying in a university far away.

But there is something about her eyes. They look drained, tired, with the dark circles etched onto her face. He feels sympathy for this lovely woman who has to work so late on Christmas Eve. He wonders if she has a family waiting for her at home.

She hesitates again, before handing him a black toy car with large tires.

“For my son,” she says softly.

He notices that she has tiny hands. Strong hands, no doubt. But tiny.

“Yes. I needed to buy him a present.” She is almost glowing with happiness.

He chuckles. “Your son will love it,” he says, her happiness stealing into him. He watches her walk out of the store, the last customer to leave.

He has forgotten about the woman who entered his store a while ago. The one with the bruises on her arm and the midnight eyes. He closes shop humming “Silent Night.”

As the beautiful woman passes the shop window, he catches sight of the pointed tip of a blood-red heel sticking out of her handbag.

• • •

She laughs as she pulls her frayed coat around her. She hurries home, her long hair rippling as she walks.

Christian is waiting. His name is a warmth that spreads through her. She thinks of his doe-shaped eyes and smile, and her heart grows ’til she fears it will burst with love. There is nobody she loves more. She holds his gift wrapped in red and gold, his favorite colors.

Work is grueling. She does not have a nine-to-five job. Sometimes she has to leave him alone for hours. It is hard. But not tonight. Tonight is Christmas Eve, and she has a gift.

“Christian!” she calls, and he rushes in, a whirlwind of chocolate curls. He throws his arms around her, his chubby fingers clasping her neck. He is surprisingly strong for a six-year-old.

“Did you get me a gift, Mama?”

He sees her face falls ever so slightly.

“It’s okay if you didn’t, Mama! I have you!” he chirps, his voice almost masking his disappointment.

“Don’t be sad. I made you a gift!”

He blushes slightly as he holds out a hand-drawn card, and looks away almost immediately, suddenly shy.

It is a picture of them under a large, purple Christmas tree, with “MERRY CHRISTMAS” in wobbly handwriting. The lines are shabby, and the color is mismatched. But to her, it is the most beautiful card in the world.

“I told you not to cry, Mama!” he says. “Don’t you like my card?”

“Of course I love it, silly boy!” she says and hugs him hard, running her hand through his curls. She does not know why she is blessed to have this much joy in her life. She does not know what she has done to deserve a boy like this as her son.

All she knows is that today is Christmas and she has a gift, and she is happy for the first time in weeks.

She pulls out his present and watches as he opens it. Pink spots appear like rosebuds in his cheeks, and the unfathomable faith that pools in his eyes lifts her soul and breaks her heart.

He is never demanding. He never pesters her for toys. He is a good boy. But she notices the way his eyes stray to the things she can’t afford, and there’s nothing that hurts more than not being able to give him everything his heart desires.

But not today.

Today she has filled his heart to the brim. Today, she is proud of herself.

• • •

She begins to unpack her bag, as he plays with his black car.

“Did your red shoe break, Mama?” he asks innocently, seeing it. His mama wears those to work, he knows, so he never touches them.

“I fell, darling,” she says quietly. “But it’s okay.”

“Is that why your arm is hurt? I’ll wish it all better, don’t you worry.” He beams at her, asking, “Did you get your Christmas wish, Mama?”

She takes in the large eyes, the unruly mop of curls, and the smile that curves like an arc of light. He has very little of her in his face, save her dimple.

He is all that’s left of the man who plunged his hands into her chest and twisted her ribs and left them that way. Left her choking and bruised and battered with a baby in her belly. She was afraid that she’d despise that baby with the vehemence that crawled in her blood for its father. But the first time he was placed in her arms, she thought, He has his father’s eyes. She thought, He is beautiful.

She knew if she loved anything in the world it was this tiny baby. And she promised that she’d fight for him. She’d give him a life. She smiles through damp eyes. She knows he is her salvation. It is her son’s smile and his hope and his tinkling laugh that she thinks of when she answers, “Yes. Yes, I did.”