So many warnings
You're on the outside, looking in.
You're at the end of an alley, a dirty one, and it's black and grimy, nighttime, and so hot and humid that you can barely breathe. You hear sirens in the distance, but they don't come near, and they aren't close enough to distract you from the other sounds in the alley: Moaning, groaning and tears.
You follow, helpless to resist, because you can't escape it, even if you fight against it. Your feet move, and somehow you're heading deeper into Hell. You know it, but there's no escaping that either. So you go, and you see the shadows first. Two men dressed in impeccable suits of grey and black. Beyond them a car idles, a Lexus with a custom paint job and a driver waiting behind the wheel. The car sounds like money, the way the engine purrs, and it certainly doesn't belong in this neighborhood, where there are bars on the windows of the apartment buildings that line the narrow alley, where the blinds are all shut tight.
The young woman, no more than a girl, is obscured by the men at first, on her hands and knees as she is. Her dress is tattered flowers, and she has no shoes, and your feet won't stop, even if you want to halt your approach. She's crying, though there's nothing non-consensual about this scene, and the sound becomes louder than anything else in the alley as you make the last leg of the journey. Tears stain her face, which is bright red with fever, and she has trouble breathing around the dick in her mouth, the rumbling deep in her chest a dangerous sort of congestion that has nothing to do with her profession, or with the advanced pregnancy that makes her stomach hang low as her filthy fingers claw at the blacktop. The man on his knees behind her doesn't seem to mind any of it, and he comes with a loud groan and a sharp yank to the woman's cinnamon hair. He laughs as the woman gurgles around his friend's dick, that rattle in her lungs making her unable to breathe through her nose properly, and they do up their pants and start talking about going to a local sports bar before the woman's body even hits the ground.
They toss a twenty at her feet, and they tell her she's disgusting, and then the car is gone. She wads the bill up in a filthy hand and slides back until she can sit against the alley wall, her movements painfully ungainly, eight months gone and nothing but skin and bones and belly. She mutters to herself, feverish things as she tries to convince herself to find the energy go eat. She's thin, and a child's hand would fit around her wrist, and she has conversations with the night air, which bears a boy's name, but the night air doesn't respond. Eventually, she falls asleep there, a death rattle in her chest and the twenty falling from between her fingers and is collected by a homeless boy moments later, while the woman sleeps.
You can taste illness and come and salt on your tongue as the memory begins to fade, as the woman jerks awake after a frighteningly long span of seconds without breathing. She feels around for the twenty dollar bill, desperation mounting as she realizes she's lost it, and then the memory is gone, the girl in the tattered dress along with it.