It takes me all the way until I park my car in the parking lot of the cathouse to properly snap back into reality. For another minute or two, I sit there, in my car, taking deep breaths while nervously contemplating all of my decisions.
I don't want to quit this job, it's all I have left.
My throat feels tight, my fingers are cold and trembling. I feel like crying, but I can't. Okay, let's just get through with this. At the end of the day, I will still have Rafael.
With a blue duffle bag in hand, I leave my car quickly, before I completely lose myself in these painful, intrusive thoughts. I quickly walk, no, I almost run across the parking lot all the way to the back door of the establishment, entering it. Immediately, I'm engulfed by the revolting smell of perfume, sweat and sex.
As if it's just any other working night, I enter the locker room and greet Stacy and Blade, who are both busy getting ready and only look up to return the 'hey' briefly. It's better that way, any unnecessary attention will only give them the potential to notice what my plan is. I make sure to take a lot longer to get ready than them and, once they leave the room, hurry to stuff all the stuff from my locker into the bag, with an exception of the needles and drugs I keep stored here.
These, I make sure to place on top of the row of metal cabinets, just in case any of my co-workers don't find other options when doing drugs. Maybe it'll at least make some of them take it responsibly. That is, if that's even a reasonable thing to say.
No drugs taken are ever done so responsibly, because not taking them is the only way to handle drugs smartly.
However, even if it's just one person I'm preventing from using an unsterile needle, it's way worth it. Plus, they're of no use for me anymore anyway. Although the voices in my head whisper quietly to keep one and use the remaining dark liquid to make tonight a bit easier for me.
How about one last time?
I shake my head and look at myself in the large mirror once I'm dressed like a hooker again. It's sickening, I disgust myself. Luckily, my brain shifts back into its old mechanisms as soon as I step into the ruddy-lit room with too many people in it.
A couple of questions linger though.
Where do I go?
What do I do?
I don't want this.
A man calls me over to him, he is sitting by the bar and offers to buy me a drink. At least I can grant myself this much, since I have eaten a proper dinner and certainly need to take off the edge. I agree and drink a glass of disgusting wine with him while making up a story in my head about how I need a man to teach me manners.
It's what he wants to hear from me, I can tell he likes the way I'm talking to him. Not long after, him and I leave for the back, where he shows me reason after reason why I need to leave this business.
To him, I am nothing but a toy.
A doll that he may use until it breaks.
And that, I do.
He leaves, but I don't seem to manage to get up.
I want to cry, but I can't. Not anymore.
I need to make it all stop.
My body hurts, and if I don't get up now, I'll be stuck in this damn bed forever.
Apathetically, I sit up, disregarding the few bloodstains I leave behind, grabbing the money off the counter and leaving the room with my clothes.
YOU ARE READING
Myocardium
General Fiction"When the night fades into dawn's palette..." Sex, drugs and the death-dealing pressure to make money night after night - It's a steep, downward spiral which 20-year-old Elijah Everdeen has found himself stuck in ever since his parents died. If it w...
