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𝐈t's been a few weeks since Madi informed me of the club. What was the name again? Dream Nightclub?
Yeah, that's it. I would look at the pictures of the card every night with thoughts running through my head, with the same question every time:
Am I ready?
In exchange for my purity, I would have money piling up as we speak- I mean, there's a possibility of making around two fucking thousand dollars just working as a waitress there. I can't shake the feeling of uncertainty running within my head.
I want the money- no, I need it. I desperately need it. For myself and my mom, and the fucking sake of survival.
My thoughts were disturbed by the pinging of my phone with the notification from calendars.
REMINDER: Pay medical bills (Dec 2)
Rolling my eyes, I threw my phone aside and attempted to go back to sleep, but I was disturbed for the second fucking time in just a matter of less than one minute.
REMINDER: Pay rent (Dec 4)
"I swear to fucking God, if you disturb me one more time, I'll beat the living shit out of you," I said, aggressively throwing it back on top of the nightstand. That's why the screen protector is about ninety percent broken at this point- it's not like I have spare money to buy a new one.
I softly hummed the tune of "Gold Rush" by Taylor Swift as I tried to go back to sleep. Doing this always helps and never fails me.
I feel myself drifting off as the words "gleaming, twinkling, eyes like sinking ships on waters, so inviting, I almost jump in" ran through my head like a melody that's been stuck there for years- I knew the lyrics by heart.
Before I drifted off completely, a beautiful man, almost too familiar, flashed before my eyes like an illusion.
Was that a sign? Who was that?
❦
𝐊nocking the clock down to the floor once again, I went back to sleep.
Seriously, what's the point of waking up and dealing with the same shit every single day? You literally can't expect anything to be different every day.
Wake up, go to work, get yelled at, go home, eat whatever you can find, sleep, and repeat- you call this life, I call this torture. Repeating the same thing causes you to forget what day of the week it is because you just follow the same routine repeatedly. You barely have time to stop and think about what day it is.
"Hey, Siri," I called out. "What day is it?" I asked.
No response.
"HEY, SIRI," I said, this time louder. "WHAT DAY IS IT?"
