Twenty minute fanfic. Title came first, the fic came later. I started writing it and realized it was for Pretty Woman. Viv's thoughts on prostitution, love, bums and more.

All These Broken Wings

What's my name? Whatever you want it to be. I go by Vivian, though. I come from a small city in Georgia. Not much to say, small and cozy. A hot apple pie on the window sill cooling kind of town.

Mom said I was a bum magnet. I could get wind of any downtrodden Tom, Dick, Harry within a five mile radius. I followed bum number three to Los Angeles, to Hollywood. The story's classic. We broke up, I went broke. Then I met Kit. She had a good thing going, no pimp, plenty of regular Joes.

Kit brought me into this business. So I'm a prostitute. Don't go thinking I'm a whore just because I have sex for money. I get checked out at the free clinic, use a new condom everytime. The whole shebang. Never kiss because it's just too personal.

And god knows, you can't afford to get attached in this business. To Joes or to drugs. I've seen the downfall of it both. Just a couple hours, they pulled a girl out of the dumpster. She was strung out. I never let those toxins enter my veins.

"What's your dream, baby? Everyone who comes to Hollywood got a dream. What's yours?" the bum on the street corner up a block hollers to passerbys. I never really had a dream. No picket fence for me. I didn't dream of children, of quiet cul-de-sacs. Just followed my heart, and look where it led me.

It could be worse. Half the girls on these streets are young, far too young. Faces covered in glitter, they're straddling their bodies against poles in well-rehearsed gyrations. Always hungry, always looking for a piece. Most of them are looking to score, but like I said before, I don't do that. They're so eager, so fresh-faced and young. Each of these girls has a story.

People think when they come to Hollywood that it shines like a city of gold. And to the occasional visitor, it might. They don't see the night like I do. This is no city of gold. Hollywood is cold and steely with an exterior that glitters and shines. The beautiful people line the streets during the day, they walk casually down the Walk of Fame, sometimes secretly wishing it was their name among the ones I'll stand on tonight.

Only at night, do the real people of Hollywood and Los Angeles come out. Staggering from heroin induced spells, washing off the stench of last night's Johns, and taking their places along the streets. Some of them are hopeful that they'll be whisked away from this life but when you're in the city of angels, you gotta have wings that fly.