Ultraviolet

Chapter One: The Country Girl

I'll spare you the nitty gritty details of how a Midwestern belle such as myself managed to escape Sunshine, Nebraska and find her way to big ole Boston. The details involve abandonment, death, an absolute asshole, the absolute asshole's piece-of-shit parents, the Sherif Deputy of Sunshine, and the Greyhound bus I was currently stepping off of. But those nitty gritty details brought me to here and to now.

Boston, Massachusetts. 10:34pm. Deep into the night but the dawn of a new day for me: Violet O'Connor.

All you need to know is that I am a force to be reckoned with, whether it be entirely true. In Nebraska, I was forced to bite my tongue and pretend that everything is just dandy. If you stepped out of line, Nebraska whooped your ass. In Boston, I am free at last and I would be stepping only out of line. A tremendous distance from the line. The line a speck in rearview mirror of my freedom automobile.

That being said, if I didn't find my way to 283 Washington Street in the next half an hour, I am most certainly going to get mugged. My outfit didn't necessarily scream "I'm rich! I'm rich and you're poor! Fuck you!"; I was in a tight-fitting black tank top my ex-foster brother gave to me, jean shorts that cut off at my mid-thigh and a undeniably cheap army green bomber jacket. No, my outfit wasn't the problem. The problem was the matching polkadot suitcase and duffle bag I clung onto so tight my knuckles were bright white

I stopped for a moment- just outside of a take-away restaurant that was still open- and breathed in the scent of smog, homelessness, and booze. Ah, the scent of Boston. Sunshine, Nebraska tended to turn off the second the sun set, but right now the streets of Boston were lively. Girls in tiny skirts and guys in black button downs strutted up and down the street, laughing about just about anything the alcohol in their systems deemed funny.

"Hey, excuse me!" I called out to a group of girls giggling together. They turned to me, bright smiles on their faces and their blonde curls sparkling with glitter. "Do any of y'all know where Washington Street is?"

"Oh my gosh, your accent is so cute." The tallest smiled.

I'd never really considered myself to have an accent. I mean, I knew Nebraskans didn't speak in the exact same way that Massachusetts-ian's spoke, but I never thought that difference would be immediately visible. Maybe it was the use of y'all. Not to self, do not say y'all anymore.

"Yeah, I'm from the mid-west. Just got here." I beamed.

"You are so adorable." She complimented. "Washington street is just down this road and to the left. Have a fun night!"

Her and her friends hurried away in their 6-inch heels as I made my way to Washington. Maybe I should have talked to her a little longer. It would be nice to have made friends my first night on the East Coast, have someone to go to if tonight doesn't go to plan.

I think a lot. You have probably already deduced this from the amount of thoughts I did done thought in the three minutes since stepping off the bus. But, despite this incredible amount of thoughts, my move to Boston was not thought through. The decision to move to Boston was decided only a few hours before I wished Sunshine goodbye and stepped onto the bus, and I had been too busy packing my life into the bags in my hands to think.

You see, I needed to get out of Sunshine. Like, desperately needed to leave as soon as possible and never look back. And I needed somewhere to stay but had absolutely no money whatsoever. That is why I am lucky to have discovered my long-lost sister, Jessica, who lives and works at 283 Washington Street. Only I had no way of communicating with her to tell her I was coming, and no way to prove I was her sister other than a handwritten note from our shared father.

I checked I had the right address. Then double checked. Then triple checked.

Unless the brass numbers attached to the brown-brick wall before me lied, this was 283 Washington Street. The building was modern, the brick the only homage to the historic aesthetic of Boston itself. Thin black frames held reflective windows across the front of the building, giving everyone inside the perfect view of the long line stretching all the way down the block.

I quickly stashed my bags behind the garbage bins on the left side of the building and returned the front of the building and took in the queue. Unlike the girls I met earlier who wore floral patterns and pastel colours, the girls in this line were dressed in shades of black and red and their clothes were tight and revealing, leaving little to the imagination.

I pulled my eyes off of a girl who had my idea of a perfect body before she noticed and got creeped out, and instead walked to the front of the line where a buff, tattooed bouncer stood guard of a sleek black double-door entrance.

I certainly couldn't wait at the end at the end of the line- I doubt I'd ever get in before they close- so I checked the bouncer was still weirdly staring straight ahead, then walked up to a girl standing 5th in line from the door. I plastered on my most charming smile and tapped her on the shoulder, she turned with an evil scowl, disfiguring what I could tell were artistically shaped brows.

"What?" She asked, her nasally voice terrifying me.

I swallowed and continued. "I need to see someone." I stated, hoping my newfound unbridled confidence and narcissistic self-worth could persuade her. "I'm just going to step in line here." I squeezed in front of her before shooting her a winners grin. "Thanks babe!".

"Excuse me?" She demanded, venom seeping through her words. "Are you even 21 yet?"

"Does it matter?" I laughed, shutting her up on the spot. I doubted the question was the reason, it seemed she was just bored of arguing. I clearly didn't react how she'd wanted me to.

A moment later, the bouncer turned to the queue and started silently checking ID's. I shuffled along, until it was my turn. He reached a gargantuan hand towards me, awaiting a drivers license. In return, I attempted to slip past into the club, only his other arm flew across my path and knocked me back to the front of the line.

"ID." He demanded, his voice deep and rich. I could imagine him doing a voiceover in a Mafia movie.

"No, thank you." I tried again, this time crouching beneath his arm. No luck. He simply grabbed onto either of my arms and lifted me back into position. "Dude, I'm not here to drink. I just need to see someone."

"This is a club, come back when you have ID." He growled.

"I'm here to see Jessica Moore." I demanded. "If you don't let me in right now I'll have her fire you!"

"How do you know Jess?" He demanded, a hint of... something in his voice. Maybe curiosity, maybe humour.

Jessica didn't know I existed. If I said I was her sister she'd simply say that she doesn't have a sister. I needed something else.

"I need to speak to her urgently." I insisted. "If I don't see her soon I'll be dead by morning!"

The guard seemed unfazed and turned to the girl behind me.

"I'm a friend of her fathers." I said simply, tilting my chin up to try to give some sense of authority.

What happened next barely processed in my brain. I felt a hand on my wrist, then a tightness in my shoulder and my own fist against my spine, then the rough concrete against my cheek and a sharp, shooting pain in my knee. The bouncer grumbled something into his sleeve as he held me down, before footsteps sounded from the front door and I was aggressively ripped from the floor onto my feet, rough hands tightened around my wrists as makeshift handcuffs.