Post by FLOR COSTA DU VALE on Dec 18, 2010 23:02:26 GMT -5
FLOR COSTA DU VALE
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FLOR, EIGHTEEN , CITIZEN, BOGIE
America the beautiful. America the great. Amber waves of grain. Purple mountain majesties. Fruited plains.
Flor Costa du Vale. My mother's name was Cintia Felizidad du Vale. My father's name was Timoteo Luis du Vale. But that doesn't matter because they are dead.
I was three when I watched them die. We were walking and I remember it was raining. I don't know where we were walking to, but i remember clutching my favorite toy lion to my chest that I remember a tall white man giving to me when he came to visit our shanty town. It was cold, which was strange because it never got all that cold where we lived. We had stopped on a tall bridge that looked down at the jagged edges of the ocean's anger and I was looking up at the sky with it's violent black color. I only had a blue dress my mother had made me, the only dress I owned. My bare feet felt frozen under the concrete and when I looked back ahead to follow right behind my parents, they were standing at the edge, hand in hand,eyes closed as they seemed to move their lips but I couldn't hear them. I went over, attempting to catch their attention before my mother looked straight ahead and let out a scream that matched the sound of the thunder with all its calamity around us.
Then they jumped.
America the beautiful. America the great. Amber waves of grain. Purple mountain majesties. Fruited plains.
My life consisted of prostitution and dancing after Liam picked me up. He loved me more than my parents ever could. He fed me, bathed me, clothed me, even bought me a new toy lion. He was the white man who adored every single little hair on my head. He taught me English, told me all his stories about America, and together we lived in a shack by the sea. I had stayed on that bridge for three days straight when he drove by and finally found me. It was the only entrance and exit from the shanty town anyway. I nursed me back to health and taught me how to dance, surf, sing, and the art of seduction. I was eight when we first made love. That was what he called it and he always called me his one and only. Our life at the sea shack was humble and peaceful; mornings spent learning and growing, nights spent in rough embraces that would leave me with bruises I would proudly display. We lived away from everyone and it was perfect until he started bringing his friends and their video cameras...My life there was another world all together and it hurt in the most deliciously painful way possible.
America the beautiful. America the great. Amber waves of grain. Purple mountain majesties. Fruited plains.
Fifteen. I was fifteen when I wandered off too far and ended up on the other side of the grove where all the tourists seemed to dance and have fun. It was at the age of fifteen that a modeling agent found me and wanted me to sign with some company there in Brazil. I said no, I wanted America. My savior. My life. My pride. My dream. I wanted to become American. I never went back to the seaside shack. I was too busy dancing for this agent, grinding my hips into his in order to give him everything his little heart desired. Everything so I could become American and after two years of giving in to his every whim, he brought me to America legally. He gave me my papers, had me signed to an agency, but I had to live with him. I cringed at the idea of marriage to a man and thus, I left and from Florida, it took me a full year to hitch hike to the city I wanted so badly to reach, where America truly came out at it's best, and where I became the model of the moment-where people loved me without having to have sex in front of a camera or getting whipped in order to obtain such attention. All I had to do was smile, walk, and strike a pose.
I keep each and every single one of my metro cards and in my room, I have taken to taping them into a large binder. It is like a pass to freedom...but even all the media attention isn't enough...I crave it, need it, want it, adore it, harness it, and moan with the very thought of it. Sex. The power of such an action and having that much control over someone-to make them so in lust with me is enough to send me over the edge. The doctor didn't know what he was talking about when he said i had borderline personality disorder. He doesn't know me.
All I need is America the beautiful, America the great, Amber waves of grain, Purple mountain majesties, Fruited plains, and myself...Flor Costa du Vales.
