New Chains, Same Shackles|| Book II

Chapter 1: New Chains, Same Shackles

The kitchen's back door swings open into the dark alley as I drag heavy black bags of garbage behind me. I heave them over the top of the dumpster one by one and groan. I then sigh and run both of my hands through my scalp tangling them in the locks of my faded black hair as I lean up against the side of the brick building.

I take a deep breath enjoying the cooling air that filled my lungs and calmed me down. I was counting down the hours until my long shift ended at Melvin's; a small bar in the cut of downtown Seventh Ward. They had me working my fingers down to the bone every day washing dishes and bartending all hours of the early morning and for little pay.

Most of my income that kept me afloat came from slanging on the corner of Jeffer Drive. Some things never do change I guess. I got sucked into the business, I wouldn't be able to get out of it even if I wanted to. Although, in a way, I knew that I wasn't going to be able to survive off of just that for long.

Especially if I wanted to be able to keep living in the shabby single bedroom apartment I moved into a few years back. That's how I ended up here. I was barely getting by day by day. I had to constantly deal with the stress and bullshit from my doped up customers on the street to the drunk short-tempted ones inside of Melvin's.

But I couldn't leave my job. It was the only thing I could do—besides apply at the strip club next door—without having a high school diploma and small criminal record. I mentally groan, I needed to get back to work. I wasn't supposed to be out back this long but I couldn't take being inside that stuffy bar that reeked of stale beer and vomit any longer.

I don't even have time for a smoke break during my shifts. I knew this could be added to the list of reasons to fire me. I take one last deep breath before sneaking back inside the mostly empty kitchen. I put a fake smile on my face as I walk through the kitchen until I end up back behind the bar and begin serving drinks to the dead room as if nothing happened.

Not many people knew about this place. Maybe it's because from the outside it doesn't look like it's ever open, or maybe it's because it doesn't look like an ideal place to stop for a cold one. The run-down bar was just on the corner of St. Claude Ave.

The cracked beige paint, bullet marks on the dingy concrete walls outside and metal-gated front door didn't look too inviting to outsiders I assume. Although, for the locals, the place was your average spot to shoot some pool and have a drink. As I'm wiping down the bar's counter with a damp washcloth I notice a couple by the pool table glancing back and forth at me.

The older man sat at the bar in front of me suddenly demands a Budweiser causing me to break my attention away from them. I sigh and turn around to grab a glass off of the rack and start pouring some from the tap. Just as I place the glass in front of the old man the pair start to hesitantly make their way over to the bar.

I look at them in anticipation waiting for them to tell me their order but they nervously glance at one another until the guy finally opens his mouth.

"Uh, w-would ya mind if we got a picture wit you?" the boyfriend stutters holding out his phone for me to take.

I look back at them with both of my eyebrows furrowed. A look of confusion grows steadily on my face, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, uhh...you're that girl right?" he asks back just as confused.

His girlfriend hits him lightly on the arm, "She is, I saw her out back wit them one time at their concert," the blonde-haired chick fails to whisper-yell.

I suddenly stop drying the glass in my hand with the rag. When it finally hits me what she was talking about my breath hitches and I trail away from the bar counter. I zone out, as the old buried memories suddenly surface the glass all of a sudden slips out of my hands.