1956

Chapter Three: Breakfast at Monroe's

The alarm blares and Eleanore wills herself to heave over on her side and slam the little clock off the nightstand. Poor thing hadn't even known what hit it.

"Morning" she moans, her whole-body aches. The bed is horrendous, making her whole body ache like this.

"Ow, oh ow" she mutters under her breath as she stands. She yawns and stretches and follows her normal morning routine. Only, she dresses nicer than usual; a light pink dress paired with nice white stockings and some beautiful pink heels. She's off to find a manager, her first appointment is at 1.

Walking down the street in daylight only makes the place look worse. It's lively but strangely in–what she can only describe as–a post-apocalyptic way. There are people, lots of people. Their eyes look tired, and they've aged. Most have hair loss and a sadness tied within the wrinkles of their clothes. All tattered and worn.

There aren't many homeless people back home and it's most certainly not like this. As her worldview widens it begins to shift and mold and understand the gravity of life. She sees just how good she has it. Her–would be–jolly mood has faded as she's met with the devastation that is reality. She was wrong. The world had never been that perfect.

Every day is not a jolly day.

Just as she fears she may begin to cry, her stomach grumbles, offering a distraction. She checks her watch and discovers she has an hour until her meeting starts. So, with enough time on her hands she pivots and heads down an alleyway toward a little restaurant at the street corner. She pushes her way to the place, which too looks to be on its last life. The neon sign only lights up the first letter and the paint has chipped almost completely off.

Monroe's Diner

It's not much but it's enough; her stomach said so. Swiftly, she moves through the revolving door and sits on a little chair in the far corner. Eyeing a few books on the little table in front of her, she picks one up and begins to read.

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"Rosemarie" a hot-headed woman shouts, "Hey, what's your problem"

"It's Rose to you. And I ain't got no problem, do you?"

"Yeah Bitch, I do"

"Let's sort it out then" Rose takes a step back, "If you ain't a pussy you'd fight me, come on now, tell me your problems. Mommy will fix it."

"I paid you and you ain't got the drugs. It's been a month. What kind of wack ass shit is this." she spits at Rose's shoes, "Are you trying to get away without getting me the dope, because listen here you dumb bitch. No one gets away from me."

"I don't owe you nothing" Rose laughs, "I gave you the stuff last week"

She feels before she can register a fist slam against her cheek. It's a solid punch, not the worst she's seen but also not the best. Either she's been hit enough times that she's gone numb or she's felt worse, maybe both. Whatever the reason that punch didn't hurt very much.

"Ok listen here now will yah." she spits at the girl's (whose name she never learned) shoes and barrels on, "I'm out here just trying to eat breakfast and I have some sorry ass of an excuse for a druggie asking for more drugs I already gave her cause she's so high she ain't remember shit." she laughs, "Don't you have something better to do?"

With that the girl unleashes and kicks the ass out of her. She's surprised, living out in the streets her whole life she's learned to fight. She has quite the reputation for being undefeated. No one messes with her either. She's always right and they always lose. So, why even bother.