Dairy of a One-Legged Prostitute

Every story has a beginning, and mine is no exception. If you were to ask me how I ended up as a one-legged call girl, I'd tell you it wasn't the result of a single decision but a series of events—some tragic, some absurd—that led me here. But don't worry, this isn't going to be one of those overly dramatic sob stories. It's just life doing what it does best: throwing curveballs when you least expect them.

I grew up in a small town where the biggest scandal was Mrs. Abernathy's affair with the butcher. Everyone knew everyone else's business, and privacy was a luxury no one could afford. My childhood was simple: school, friends, and the occasional crush on the boy next door. My sister Clara and I were inseparable back then. She was the wild one, always pushing boundaries and getting us into trouble, while I was the sensible one trying to keep us out of it.

But everything changed when I turned 18.

It was a rainy afternoon in early spring—the kind of day where the sky feels like it's about to collapse under its own weight. I was crossing the street on my way home from school, daydreaming about college and all the adventures waiting for me, when a bus came barreling around the corner. The driver didn't see me, and I didn't see him until it was too late.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed surrounded by beeping machines and the sterile smell of antiseptic. My parents were there, their faces pale and drawn. My mother held my hand tightly, her knuckles white from gripping so hard.

"Lila," she whispered, her voice trembling, "you're going to be okay."

But I wasn't okay—not really. The accident had taken my leg and with it, a piece of my identity. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive, but at that moment, I didn't feel lucky at all.

(To the reader) People often ask me how it feels to lose a limb. It's hard to explain. There's an initial shock—like your brain can't quite process what's happened—followed by a wave of anger and grief that hits you like a freight train. You mourn not just the loss of your leg but also the life you thought you'd have.

Rehabilitation was grueling—hours of physical therapy that left me exhausted and frustrated. But slowly, I learned to adapt. Crutches became an extension of my body before I graduated to my first prosthetic leg—a clunky contraption that felt more like an alien appendage than part of me.

Clara visited me every day during those months in rehab. She brought snacks we weren't supposed to have and told me stories about all the ridiculous things happening back home.

"You won't believe this," she said one afternoon, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Mrs. Abernathy got caught sneaking out of the butcher's shop through the back door! Apparently, she forgot her umbrella."

I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair. For those brief moments, she made me forget about everything—the pain, the frustration, and the overwhelming sense of loss.

When I finally left the hospital, I thought things would get easier. But adjusting to life as an amputee was harder than I'd anticipated. People stared at me wherever I went—some with pity, others with curiosity—and their reactions only made me more self-conscious.

(To the reader) Losing a leg doesn't just change how you move through the world; it changes how the world sees you. Suddenly, you're not just Lila anymore—you're "that girl with one leg."

Desperate for a fresh start, Clara and I decided to move to London together. She had dreams of becoming an artist; I had no idea what I wanted anymore. All I knew was that staying in our small town felt like suffocating under a blanket of memories.

At first, London felt like freedom—a city full of possibilities where no one cared about your past or your scars. But reality hit hard when we realized how expensive freedom could be. Rent alone ate up most of our savings, leaving little for anything else.

I tried everything to make ends meet—waitressing at diners, working retail jobs—but nothing seemed to stick. Employers always looked at my prosthetic leg like it was some kind of liability instead of just another part of me.

One night after another rejection from a job interview, Clara found me sitting on our tiny couch with tears streaming down my face.

"You can't keep doing this," she said gently as she sat beside me. "You're killing yourself trying to fit into a world that doesn't deserve you."

Her words stuck with me long after she went to bed.

A few days later, while scrolling through job listings online, I stumbled upon an ad for "high-class escorts." At first glance, it seemed absurd—a last resort for people with no other options—but something about it intrigued me.

(To the reader) It's funny how desperation can make you consider things you never thought you would. When your back is against the wall and bills are piling up faster than you can count them, morals start to feel like luxuries you can't afford.

I met with an agency that week—a dimly lit office tucked away in a nondescript building downtown. The women there were glamorous and confident in ways that felt almost intimidating.

"You'll do great," one of them said after looking me over. "You've got something unique."

(To the reader) Unique is code for "you've got one leg," but hey—I'll take it.

My first client was terrifying but surprisingly uneventful—a businessman who wanted someone to accompany him to dinner and pretend to laugh at his jokes. It wasn't what I expected… but it wasn't awful either.

And just like that, Lila was born—the one-legged call girl who could charm anyone with her humor and wit.