She is beautiful. Never in my life have I seen a woman so gorgeous. I stare at her like I'm in a trance. I must be, because it's impossible to look away. Her red lips. Her soft closed eyes. He long blonde hair. Her hips. Her hands in the red sparkly...
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The next morning, I wake up earlier than usual. The soft light of dawn filters through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. Ashley is still asleep beside me, her breathing steady and peaceful. She looks so serene, like the war and all the chaos outside can't touch her here. I wish I could stay like this, just watching her sleep, but duty calls.
Quietly, I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. I put on my uniform, the heavy fabric a stark reminder of the world waiting outside. Before leaving, I turn back to look at her one last time. She stirs slightly, her blonde hair spilling over the pillow. For a moment, I consider crawling back into bed, but I know I can't. With a heavy heart, I head out the door.
Training today is rough, more grueling than usual. My muscles ache with every push, pull, and run. But no matter how hard I try to focus, my mind keeps drifting back to Ashley—the way she looked last night, the feel of her lips on my cheek, her laughter echoing in my ears. I wonder if she's awake now, if she's thinking about me too.
When the training finally ends, I'm exhausted, but the thought of seeing her again gives me a burst of energy. The nightclub isn't open yet.
Tired I decide to head back to the apartment and rest before Ashley's performance.
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I get ready, slipping into the tight black dress that clings to my body, almost suffocating me. The fabric is sleek and smooth, but it feels like it's constricting my breath. Black. I love black—it's so dark, so consuming. It hides everything, swallows it whole. Black is safe. Black means I don't have to see anything I don't want to.
But red... I hate red. Even though my wardrobe is full of dresses in that color, I despise it. Red is like blood. Red is the blood that dripped down my mother's face when my father hit her. Red is the color that stained my hands after she died.
I snap out of my thoughts and push the memories away, focusing on the night ahead. I've written a special song for tonight's performance, something to keep the emotions I keep bottled up away. I sit down at the vanity to do my makeup, staring at my tired reflection. God, I'm exhausted. Tired of this routine, of putting on a face and pretending everything's okay. But I take it one day at a time. Just like always.
