Jessie Kensington thought she had escaped her troubled past when she faked her death and started a new life as Violet Arrowood. But three years later, she finds herself at Vanguard University on a scholarship, trying to build the future she always d...
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It's been three years to the day since I faked my death. Six months since I've been in Northbridge. Seven hours since I started my shift.
I run my polishing cloth around another glass for the hundredth time tonight. I'm kind of obsessed with polishing glasses—there's something therapeutic about making something sparkly and new again. The club is packed. It always is on a Saturday night. Tonight, though, has been pretty tame compared to other weekends. No one has smashed any glasses over anyone's head or done lines at the bar, at least not that I've noticed. So that's nice, I guess.
Bartending has been my go-to job in every city I've lived in over the years. I don't mind it. It's not particularly exciting, but it keeps my hands busy and my mind distracted. It's better than staying at the dump of a hostel I've been crashing in.
There's a group of girls at the end of the bar flirting with Len, the bartender. And that dreaded monster claws at my gut. I hate them. Not because they're flirting with him or because they're using their boobs to get free drinks. I hate them because that's not me. Because I can't do that. The monster inside me is envy-green, and she wants to claw the eyes out of anyone who shows me just how abnormal I am—she's a pitiful creature. One of the girls wears a crown that flashes the numbers one and eight, and she smiles at me.
The sound of glass shattering yanks me back to reality—my reality. The rest of the girls turn to stare at me as I kneel to pick up the broken glass. Great. Just great. I take a breath, calming the beast inside. When I open my eyes, I see myself reflected in the shards. The blue streak in my hair waves in front of me like a defeated flag. How poetic—picking up the broken pieces of myself and chucking them in the trash. Because something that broken can't be fixed.
My nineteenth birthday is in two weeks. My real birthday. And I'll have to pretend it's nothing. But I don't want to pretend anymore. I want more. I dig my nails into my palms, needing the pain to focus me, needing to feel something. But it's not enough. It doesn't stop the thoughts from storming inside me. The words I've been running from since that night: You never escaped. I never escaped.
A blind man could see the chains still attached to my old life.
I ran from my life because I was trapped, suffocated. I was imprisoned in the life I was dealt. But glancing around this club, filled with sweaty people gyrating on each other and high on life, I realise they'll go home to warm beds, to someone waiting for them. And I'll never be that. Suddenly, I feel more trapped and imprisoned than ever before.
And the alarm that usually goes off after I've stayed somewhere more than two months begins to flash red. I have to leave. I've been here too long anyway. I need out.
I finish cleaning up the glass and hang my cloth over the dishwasher.
"Are you okay?" Len asks, a concerned look on his face. I'm sweating; I can feel it trickle down the back of my neck. I tell him I'm just going to the bathroom and walk out the door. As soon as I enter the bathroom, I hunch over the sink and turn the tap on full blast, letting the sound drown everything else out. My heart is thumping in my chest, and when I glance in the mirror, I see my mascara has smudged under my eyes. No wonder he asked if I was okay—I look more of a mess than usual. I wipe under my eyes and run my wrists under cool water, remembering something I read about how it's supposed to help in situations like this. I flick water over my chest and adjust the tight black tank top that always seems to get me more tips. Slicking back my long brown hair, I take a shaky breath before heading back out.
