The story is always the same. Open your legs, open your heart, get nothing in return. Lust is not just a story full of snap shots that resemble a memoir of a whore, but instead, a picture of a complex girl who cannot escape her own demons. She would look into their eyes, yearning to find a moment to grasp, praying for feeling to surge back into her torn veins that were once alive. She wanted to know more, to know who was behind the devious grin and wandering hands. "Who are you?" she would ask, as if the person in front of her was merely a stranger. Yet their eyes never flickered and the silence was always lingering on the tip of their tongues, knowing that their answer was never a reply worthy of such a question. She knew she had fallen under and drowned in their presence, even though at first they had branded an impression so innocent and gentle on her mind.
             After reading the story, I was confused as to why she didn't stop these acts, if it made her so despondent. However, she never once stopped the routine that left her curled up in a ball like a homeless child hovering over a piece of food. She got into a pattern where she was unable to get out of. It seemed as if she wanted affection; to feel wanted and accepted. I was so engulfed in her character that I also took on the role of the victim: emotionally numb, unable to feel the shots of pain as each guy would rip off another piece of her soul. I wanted to shake her, open her eyes, and prove to her that it wasn't worth it. The feeling she experienced after sex, the sadness that filled her limp body; those were warning signs to stop opening up in such a physical way. In the beginning she would still nurture that one ounce of hope, praying that maybe this time substance would fill the void. Nevertheless, the overwhelming feelings were never ones to put a smile on her face.
             The most obvious thing that struck a chord with me was how concerned she was with each boy&...