The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Phase 2: Pleading to Revoke the Revoked Plea

Passing by Lukatic Park, the November midnight air rushes past my body, and it felt as if a freezing wall just smacked my entire body. I head down to my job in  a low-key cabaret, called Amour Pensuer. Since the sign scintillates with a cosmic latte light, it illuminates the entire expanse of the entryway of the cabaret. The entrance is small and people have to walk down probably ten steps just to see the door. Surely enough, once you pass by it, you won't notice it; this place is only known by the ones who hear about it. Even though it's low-key, its customers are no where near modern. I work as a waitress, and the highlight of this is that I get to meet the "profound" personalities of every luxurious individual. You either see company presidents/ business officials courting a slut/prostitute or you either see a slut/prostitute trying to get laid by any man. And, what makes this cabaret special, is that it has "special, private rooms." These "rooms" contain the elite of elites either relieving stress or just making time pass. I admit this job is quite the embarrassment and not quite what I had in mind, but the pay is decent and the tips are generous.

I should've gotten a job when I was younger, but at the age of fifteen and sixteen you're usually rebellious, right? Having this job for only a month, still can't pay the acquired amount for the lowest of apartments, but at least the pay can get me a coffee and a muffin from a cafe and still have some change left over. 

I arrive at the cabaret, but instead of going in from the glamorous entrance, I go down an eerie alley, make a sharp left turn, and head through the backdoor. As I enter this monstrosity, I am welcomed by the nagging lectures of how I'm late by two minutes. Of course, I apologize and say it won't happen again, but I know that they're only nagging me because it's rush hour (it might also be because I'm a full-time night employee, but whatever). I go to the locker room, open my locker, put on my white silk tie, skimp'y black dress, three-inch stilettos, and a name-tag that says: Ellie Hendri; people (co-workers) call me El or E or something that relates to my name. My fellow waitress curls my dark brown hair within four minutes, not wasting a second. I put simple nude lipstick, brown eyeliner, and dark-brown mascara and nothing else. I supposedly look "perfect" because it complements my dark brown eyes, but I don't protest because the less is better.

I walk onto the main floor, and the place is the same as always. Low lighting, slightly cold but just right; you see the occasional flirting and coquetting around the couches and see the ecstatic drunkards at the dazzling bar. The main floor is huge, having it's own dance floor in the middle, a shimmering, crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the couches on the upper left corner, the tables and chairs on the lower left corner, and the bar being on the complete opposite side hogging the entire right area. And, no, I would never EVER forget where the "special" rooms are located; surprisingly enough, those rooms have their own floor, being the floor upstairs (The private rooms cost the customers $500 per person, so it's our money-maker). 

I take about ten orders at a time, mostly them being a room or some Kahlua or Vodka; if I do the orders quickly enough, I can get a twenty dollar tip or even more (surely enough, I gladly take the tip). Once I think that "the heat of the night"  won't be coming , I hear the familiar chime of a bell, and think to myself, "I stand corrected."

Joel Vonzeal, heir of Vonzeal Inc. When he decides to visit this place, (Weekends only, and sometimes Wednesday when he's stressed) he doesn't come in the business formal wear; he wears blue jeans, a white v-neck, and nice pair of kicks, which in this case, is the same exact fashion the indigent people wear. Women fawn over him only for his status, money, and he's said to be great in bed. I gag at the sight of these women that throw  themselves at him, but I'd understand why they would call him a heartthrob. Despite the fact his hair is always disheveled, the messy, midnight black fits him better than anyone else; his light blue eyes always look like they can see right through you. But, that doesn't change the fact that he's an insensitive bastard. Even though he's only eighteen he's considered "the sexiest man in the WORLD." You can't just go by his side, spend a night with him, and say "I'm Mrs. Vonzeal!~" Once he's had a taste of a particular woman, he goes straight to his next target. 

An awkward atmosphere floods the premises. His majesty scours the cabaret, looking for another soul  to taint. Anyone can tell that he's the opposite of a happy mood, because he's sitting at the bar instead of the couches, and the last time he came here early, he stayed in the private rooms til closing time (FYI: 12:00AM - 8:30AM is the opening and closing times). The cacophony of noises soon awoke as soon as Joel took his regular spot on the bar. I think to myself, "Bless the poor soul that's his next victim."  I do the regular routine:
1)Take orders.                                                                                                        
2)Hand to Kai (head of bar) or Rosetta (organizer of the "rooms").          
3)Hand any type of alcohol or escort the "lovely" couple to their room.        
4)Pick up my tips and repeat.                                                                                    
I could tell that this night would be like any other, but I felt a pair of eyes watching my every move. 

It's 2:14AM and Joel Vonzeal has yet to pick up his temporary queen. Like always, I see whores/prostitutes/sluts try to score a night, but they fail miserably. And to add to their misfortune, an enchantress with curly hazel hair, hazel eyes and a nice figure makes quite an impressive entrance. From my point my view, she's just another desperate madame, but from the eyes of the opposite gender, she's a holy goddess. She's also an heir with a wicked personality, but has a great body and an evil mind. This "thing" with F-cup flabs of fat, is called: Lilly Conroy.

Joel's crowd of followers make a pathway for the vixen with a low-cut v-neck and tight leather short-shorts; I think about my "blessing-to-the-next-victim" plea, and hope that it will be revoked. Sir Vonzeal seems to not take notice of the long pair of legs approaching him, so Lilly taps him on the shoulder, murmurs something into his ear, but Joel keeps drinking his Zinfandel red wine. You can see the irritated aura Lilly is emitting, but you can also see a cloud of persistence still lingering. Next thing you know, she tries to plant a kiss and make it into French, but that plan was rejected. I can already foresee that this result won't be pretty, so I return to my "work." Next thing I know, someone grabs my hand, and I'm being dragged out of the cabaret.  

I look to see who my kidnapper is, and I see tan skin holding my hand. I observe this stranger seeing that he has a white v-neck, jeans, white shoes, black disheveled hair, and piercing blue eyes. I soon figure out that my innocence would be taken by, none other than, Joel Vonzeal. I think about my plead that I asked be revoked. I regret that decision, and I was pleading to revoke the revoked plea.