Manager of the dress shop pov

Even at the distance with eyes covered by her bangs, I can tell she's staring intensively. I tried to convince myself that your behaviors were insignificant to me but I couldn't help but be suspicious that you remembered me in a not so pleasant light Emma. Sure I did things that at I'm not proud of but I was forced to do the actions I did otherwise I didn't know how messed up my existence was. I still have to remind myself that what they did to me was wrong whenever I am threatened to revert to methods that they've instilled in me.

I don't want resort to those measures. Though how should I approach you? You appear a lot different from when you were littler. You were wide eyed, curious, a chatter box, a lover of attention, a being who seemed blissfully ignorant. I had a misplaced hatred for you. I primarily saw an amalgamation made from the union of a ghetto whore with a swine who decided to have gluttonous entitlement to bring more hindrance to my shit show of a reality. 

Back then it felt like I only had agony and a close eventual end, so the chance of drowning someone who pissed me off in suffering was an opportunity I reckon I didn't want to miss. 

That changed a little the day I personally met you for the first time. You were ruffled up with snot, tears and pink eyes from sobbing. So small, so vulnerable. So many sadistic thoughts came into my head nearly the instant I saw you call alone in the forest. Then it clicked. I don't have to be the one to directly show this little girl how ugly the world can really be.

I pretended to be concerned and willing to give aid, you were reluctant but took put your tiny squishy hands into my palm.

    "Just you wait, a little check in the phone books, a call, then your parents would come in no time to pick you up," I said as I guided you. A lot came out of your mouth when you became more comfortable around me. I was annoyed by you digging for questions about me and trying to convince me to play games with you. I was tempted to threat you to submission, incapacitate you, or carve out your tongue then drag you through the cellar of my uncle's basement. Instead I asked you how you know so many games.

   "It was a way to try to have a little fun while going to grandma or daddy's place. I live with mommy and grandma when it's the summer."

   "Your mom and dad separated?"

   "I don't remember mommy and daddy together. I wish they would like to be together with me, be nice to one another but mommy and daddy don't want to."

   "Sorry about that," I said when though I couldn't really feel anything other than not surprised at all. 

   I heard young love dies fast. But I don't think what they had was love. I saw an idiot who wanted some pussy and a slut who wanted to mooch off a spoiled wretch. Then again what is love? A weird thing to think of when I make clothes for special occasions, even wedding dresses. Dresses used for women to bind with a man they are meant to commit to. Not all of it for 'love' but that is what's brought up a frequently by women who comes in my shop. How beautiful the bride would be for their groom in their dress. Some going in detail in how they are eager to spend their future with them.

   ...

   Why am I doing this to myself? I need to focus on finishing my clients clothing, get a smoke, go home and rest. Contemplate later on how the hell I'm gonna deal with the three who're often hanging on the trees.