Anarchy [h.s]

Chapter 9 ✶ A sliver of sympathy

"He likes to shoot his gun, but he knows not what it means."

Song of the chapter:
In Bloom by Nirvana

Tw: sexual assault.

I tap a red-inked pen against a blank page. Staring at the thin lines that are set in place to better separate sentences I feel frustration bubble in the back of my throat.

Nothing. Nothing, and more nothing.

I throw the pen into this stupid notebook as I crash my body back against the chair. The yellow sun leaks into the room from the wall of windows ahead of me warming the atmosphere. It's a beautiful day, and I'm stuck in here studying the checkered tile.

I put up a new poster in the main room this morning, and that was the highlight of my fucking week.

My cell phone hasn't buzzed, my eyes haven't landed on green ones, and there have been no leather jackets in sight for a whole week.

At least I know Harry will have to contact me next Monday for my due payment.

The bell chimes pulling my attention to the door.

A girl with blonde hair messily pinned back, small dainty tattoos crawling down her arms, a tight white tank top with the words Black Sabbath painted over it, baggy blue jeans hanging low on her hips, white scraped up Converse and rings that hold a different crystal on every single finger, walks in.

"Are you hiring?" She tilts her head to the side, resting her hand on the bag that hangs from her shoulder down to her hip.

I eye her suspiciously. She looks young, and her makeup is soft except for harsh eyeliner. "Depends on who's asking."

Her cheeks flush in a smile like I've already hired her. "Hi, my name is Haley." She steps up to the receptionist's desk that I sit behind.

"I'm Iris." I nod as a polite gesture.

"I'm working for you now." Her voice holds a strong demanding tone.

"Oh, are you?" I laugh at her initiative.

"Yes." She folds her arms atop my desk. "I'm nineteen years old, living on my own and I really need a job, yes, but I actually want to do something that I love."

Just when I think that marks the end of her speech, she starts calmly rambling like we're the best of friends.

"I love art, and a tattoo is really just another form of art." She moves her hands a lot when she speaks showcasing her black nail polish. "Rob, the old guy who owned this place, kind of creeped me out. Even though he did all of my tattoos and stuff, I would never want to work for him, but he doesn't own this place anymore... at least I don't think he does."