Originally a year 12 English Ext2 project, Ive divided it up and am editing it... I thought I'd put it up here for you all to read and get some feedback...
Thanks.

I have always had a natural propensity for voyeurism. As a boy I would watch, secretly, as the dumpy woman next door carried out her daily chores. Greying, middle aged and bulging, I was perversely attracted to her none the less. I would stare guiltily, and with a misguided lust, at her gelatinous arms pegging damp washing; each item a banner displaying the household’s allegiance to cheap chain store clothing and brand name knockoffs. It was with this hag, whom time has rendered nameless, that I first learnt how easily some women can be manipulated.

She was merely one of many which followed.

Sophie.

Nestled neatly amongst the chaotic urban sprawl of the city street, I was well camouflaged against a backdrop of black draped, cigarette dangling yuppies. Each of them with their large sunglasses and even larger egos. Up and down the street they continued. Drawn to this road by the fashionably edgy atmosphere of the place, which owed largely to the even mix of vintage clothing stores, record shops and adult entertainment venues.  Most gathered contentedly in bars, clubs and cafes (like the one in which I sat) that broke up the orgy of cheap materialistic pleasures. Woven amongst the crowd, were the brightly coloured manes of teenagers still trapped within the punk scene of the 80’s, equally as attracted the grungy decadence of the area.

The uncharacteristic heat of that mid autumn day only exaggerated the mingled odours of generously applied perfumes; car exhausts, and the ever-present curtain of cigarette smoke that enveloped me. Somewhere nearby music was blaring from the earphones of an ipod; only the heavy backbeat was discernible, hip-hop – rubbish. All around me the hum of traffic clamoured; any indication of wildlife that may have inhabited the surroundings effectively drowned out. The false hope that imbued the city seemed to rise in the tumbling whirls of heat waves, shimmering over the tarmac. Dispersed and trampled underfoot by greedy shoppers, never to be realised.

From behind the haze of my fellow diner’s carcinogenic breakfasts I noticed her. Striding down the street with a posed confidence, which faltered as she occasionally tugged at the faded green cardigan, in a futile struggle to hide her midriff. Her hair and skin were reminiscent of a Botticelli Venus, though in frame and build she was very much a modern day beauty, reflecting a culture of über-thin fashion icons. Dark round eyes were framed by an angular face; with smooth colourless cheeks and a pouting down turned mouth. Her general discontentment was evident. Even from across the road her skin appeared to be wet cloth, clinging to the skeletal frame across which it was stretched. Her hips jutted wildly through the gap between her top and her jeans, pushing against the damp calico skin that held them back.

My interest captured I traced her movements from my vantage point, into a second hand music store, along a rack of band t-shirts, stopping to greet the equally miserable teen behind the counter. I sat and watched, my coffee forgotten on the café table, as she thumbed her way through a shelf of battered vinyls. The following day I returned, (something which I continued to do until I knew each waitress by name and had long since lost the taste for coffee) and waited expectantly for her appear. I was rarely disappointed.

When the excitement of such surveillance had wearied one day, I decided to be more proactive. Following her into the music store, I was reminded acutely of the street kids and child prostitutes I had seen overseas, on the streets of London. Heavy eyeliner disguising tired eyes, and dishevelled hair; her whole demeanour screamed of abandonment, or at least neglect. Her fingers rapidly flicked through a stall of records in familiar movements, they hovered then continued; pawns in a mental debate over cost versus worth. Casually I walked a little closer to her as she moved on.

Finally my moment came. The worn leather strap of her bag broke under the apparent weight of its contents. With a thud it hit the floor and exorcized itself of everything it held. Books, tampons and loose money all scattered, as well as a small, scuffed box of diuretics which she immediately snatched up, and two cards. The first a school ID; the second another ID, clearly a fake. Shameless I read them.

Sophie Floyd-Evans

DOB: 19/06/1991

Year 10 2007

Sophie Evans

DOB: 19/06/1988

Sex: F

Donor: Y

I bent down to help her gather everything, an excuse to introduce myself perhaps, or to look at her closely at least. Around her neck was a silver pendant of Saint Jude Thaddeus, patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. Looking at her emaciated and abused body, I recognised the appropriateness of her choice in saint. My eyes lingered a moment too long on the chain and it’s wearer noticed my stare.

“I was born on the feast day of Saint Jude . . .” she explained falteringly.

“Patron saint of lost causes.” I replied. She looked at me quizzically unsure how to respond to such a remark. “I’m a good Catholic boy,” I explained “product of a traditional Catholic education – my name’s Nicholas” I offered. A tentative smile was my reward.

“Sophie.” She mumbled, turning with haste to disappear.

I knew immediately that the inherent politeness of such a shy girl – no matter how rebellious she tried to present – would be her Achilles heel. I simply had to engage her in a conversation she couldn’t politely leave.

Always an opportunist; I saw the second ID still lying on the floor and pursued her through the shop to return it.

“You removed Floyd from your name in the second ID” I called out extending my hand to give it to her.

“Floyd was my father’s last name…so I’d rather not have it….” She replied, the forced defiance of her voice uncertain.

“I’ve noticed you around a few times” I said brazenly.

“Really? . . .”

Suddenly she was malleable, unwittingly trapped within my grasp.