Chapter Text
Starvation, illness, poverty, and death seemed to follow you wherever you dared to go and linger just around the next bend or upcoming corner.
You had grown so used to it all since you were a child that you weren't even aware that it wasn't normal to be surrounded by so much tragedy, until black and white sitcoms and romcoms that seemed to romanticize a life you had never known nor had, enlightening you so.
Law enforcement didn't seem to help, in fact you believed they'd choose to turn a blind eye or even fund the big gang groups and mobs that seemed to run the city streets. Taking what they wanted and killing somebody just because they swore they had given them an odd look or owed them something in which they were late on giving over.
And they did it all while strutting up and down the side walks with their high quality suits, polished oxfords, and golden crowned teeth.
It nauseated you with how many people woke up starving and would go to bed starving as well, while arrogant pricks with blood coated money ate, gleamed, and chortled on with their days.
'I want out of this place'' The words would grill through your mind for the hundredth time like it did again and again , your fingers coiling around the base of the microphone.
You were a singer. Not anything serious nor were you notorious, you just did it because people told you that you did well at it and you got paid tolerable wages—not enough but something you wouldn't argue for.
However, despite all of that, the pay wasn't good enough for what you had to deal with: the spotlight was always too hot and overwhelming, the recommended dresses you had to wear were too tight around your figure and way too lewd for your taste, and the makeup was so very bold, feeling much less of a clown than a performer.
It was all too much, really.
But you were stuck.
Countless nights and dwindling hours during the day, you would like to day dream about moving off and into the urban countryside where you'd own a small cottage and have rows and rows of flowers, plants, and crops to tend to.
You'd imagine the quality of life would be immaculate compared to what you had in the "big city", not having to randomly flinch or wake up in a fit after the alarming sound of gunshots being let out from the nearest alleyway or sidewalk. A foot stretch of yellow tape being seen rounding the perimeter of the prior night's crime.
No longer would you have to worry about the arguing couple next door, they're screams never failing to pierce through the paper thin walls and torment you.
You didn't even want to think about the nasty smell of black mold laying the air on thick.
You then flinched, the loud popping of palms against palms being let out in applause to your performance was heard.
A wave of people, patrons. Though, you never paid well attention to really study the majority of that night's crowd. Serving well as a wave of uncanny smiling faces within your peripheral.
All you could really do, and normally did was remove yourself from the microphone and smile, not a true smile at that, but it was a smile that was pleasant enough for women to admire and desperate men to savor.
You'd politely wave and maybe even press out a small snicker through your teeth at the loud shrill of someone whistling from the back tables of the bar before you'd back away from the front of the stage and inch towards the back curtain's opening.
But, as the spotlight slipped from your face, so did your smile. Like pins had been unclipped from your facial strings.
You had a passion for the arts, but you hated the only possible outlet that was available for the likes of you: seedy old clubs and bars that never truly respected their hired women, performing women, women patrons, and just...well— Women in general.
You weren't good enough to perform in the big amphitheaters and auditoriums where "big shots" were often seen.
You were just "okay".
"Okay" enough to be heard as background noise while businessmen and off-posted soldiers got drunk and made a fool of themselves.
And maybe, that was how it was going to be.
Never respected for what you could do or what you currently were as a person.
It was okay though. The truth itself stung painfully a long time ago upon realization, but now it was just a matter of awareness.
The women's restroom saw you in immediate charge. Pushing past the old wooden pane door and disappearing behind the third stall door farthest from the bathroom's entrance and exit.
There, you changed into something much more comfortable and warm while trying to ignore the disconcerting smacking and giggling within the stall over. Disposing your performing dress, hair pieces, and heels into your bag.
You were out in less than five minutes, where you approached one of the sink basins that lined the left end of the bathroom's wall, twisted the faucet's knob, and then scrubbed the makeup that was caked to your face away.
You would've used the small dressing room that your current pub had to offer for performing ladies such as yourself, but it was pretty obvious once you had glanced into the small 2 by 2 room that it wasn't usable and hadn't been in proper use for quite the while: between the poor excuse for a vanity table covered in small leftover fringes of white powder and the worn down dressing stool, it didn't take a fool to realize that the room was intended for different purposes other than for a woman to get "dolled up" in.
So you went for the latter option: the bathroom.
Yes, it wasn't private, but believe it or not, it smelt ten times better than the dressing room had.
You twisted the sink off once you felt that all the makeup was removed, just in time to hear one of the stall door's rattle and then unlatch, opening to a chorus girl strutting out in a fit of giggles and smeared makeup while a sleazy man shuffled out behind her while adjusting his belt, both briefly acknowledging you as you stared at them through the sink's mirror before stumbling out.
The bathroom could've been more private, however..
"I need to get out of here. Soon." You whispered, hearing the chorus's girl's heels click and clack out of the bathroom. Incomprehensible laughter being sounded by her male acquaintance.
You really hated being there.
But once again, it paid the bills.
.............................................................................
Leaving the bathroom was almost like exposing yourself to the susceptibility of a brutal noise bomb, except it was laughter, whistling, show girls giggling, and the screeching malfunction brought through the air by young amateur woodwind and brass players.
It made you nearly eager to leave the place, only for you to remember that you had a scheduled performance the following night within the exact same venue.
How peachy.
The place was still crowded, which wasn't out of the ordinary for friday nights like such, it just made you wonder how busy it was going to be the following night and how chaotic it would even get.
But, that was a concern for the following night. Despite changing out of those painful high-heels you had worn for the night, your feet were still searing with pain and your back felt as if it were about to snap in half at any moment.
Despite this, You were only after your nightly wage, grabbing it from the wretched venue owner and slipping effortlessly out of the place like you did so many nights before.
But when you approached him, he looked slightly out of sorts this time around. His eyes rattled wildly with the kind of unnerving expression a small mouse would've had after seeing a monstrous feline or some kind of preying bird.
You wanted to inquire, but you knew better to mind your business when it came to the slightest curiosities that went rampant. After all, it was theorized that he was involved with the more dangerous sorts of people by occasion, hearing it being said by passing conversation. So, either way, it was in your best interest to stay out of whatever it was that had him sweating...even if you were concerned.
He didn't say anything, plucking out a small envelope from his breast pocket and handing it to you.
When you plucked it from his fingers, you noticed almost immediately how the contents laid thicker under the paper film than normal. Would you typically get a flat envelope of only a couple ten dollar bills inside.
But this...
There had to have been around 12 bills worth inside.
You weighed it along your left palm, staring down at it before looking back up with a raised brow.
"The um—" his hand snaked around his neck, visibly massaging the tension out of it,"The gentleman at table six sends his admiration." His eyes flashed within the direction of his far left, though never seeming to dare to directly draw his eyes into the specific direction.
"Oh." You uttered.
Once he took a step to the side and walked away, disappearing into what remained of that night's crowd, you stared back down at the envelope, the bedding of your thumb rubbing ploddingly at the felted surface.
And then your eyes lifted from the contents of your grip. And, as if intuitive, your gaze flashed into your far left, past swaying mass of men and women laughing and enjoying themselves amongst each other and past blurring streaks of waiters and waitresses whizzing by.
And as you were told, on the other side of the room, sitting at a table labeled with a tent card reading six was a man.
At least you thought it was a man.
He was larger than any other man you've ever seen at least, with one of his brawny arms crossed below his chest by default as the other hung over the table, pinching at a small glass of liquor around his fingertips.
You couldn't see his face as an old and worn garb of fabric curtained over the entirety of his head. Two holes could be seen cut out within the fabric and exposing a set of pale blue eyes that glared back at you like lacerating blades
What the fuck.