A text I wrote as a test monologue in the Noir genre. Just a simple writing exercise
The night howls with the broken heart of a school girl turned hooker, turning tricks on the corner with a baby in her belly. In the night shadows are freed from the pretense of civilization. The dark heart of this world gone mad drums a beat to which the monsters dance, and the innocent would be the first to die if we'd had any left. The politicians, the industrialists, the gutless middle-class call this city a home, a jewel. A pious maiden in a dark world. They don't see what she does at night, with me. When the sun sets and her naive and overprotective custodians slumber in their silk sheets she is freed from pretense. She is wrapped in shadows and I in her. She's a dark mistress in a gown black and arterial red. She is wild, cruel and loving, granting bliss and madness as she sees fit.
She's a woman. Some, small and naive as they may be, would call her a whore, berate her and try to save her. Never taking the time to see her for what she is. She owes them nothing, yet they condemn her for failing to be what they want her to be. The fools.
I wouldn't want their women, their white and perfect and noble girls. Wouldn't want them for all the money in their world. I have her, my dark lady. She's all I'd ever need.
She's flawed. Facades torn and old scars cover worn skin, she's not soft and fresh anymore. She doesn't smell of sugar and babies like a good girl would She's intoxicating. She's not a dressed-up plastic perfect cutout of girl, but she's real. And that makes me love her even more. She draws me close as dawn approach, a kiss goodbye as she puts on her mask. She walks into the day as the shadows crawl away, and I hear her whisper “Until tonight. My love.”