She groans as she stretches her arms in order to tie her hair in a knot above her head, then gets comfortable against me by placing her back to my chest and settling her head on my shoulder.
“You need more room?” I ask.
“No,” she says with a sigh, then closes her eyes. “This is perfect.”
Moonlight is at its peak now, and casts crazy silhouettes on the walls that are on the opposite sides of the bed. They’re subtle, but seem imposing regardless.
I gently wrap my arms around Cignette’s waist, and make sure my hold is loose enough, in case she needs to shift.
All of this is so fucking domestic by my standards. If the crew saw me like this, I’d never hear the end of it. But then again, I haven’t yet given any number of shits about what they think when it comes to Cignette, so it’s only natural that I don’t start doing it now. Being here with her is…nice, and I don’t regret a second of it.
But, being here with her has also made me think of certain things I endured before stuff changed for me.
I bend and kiss Cignette’s temple, then let my eyes fall shut as I inhale the smell of her hair, and her skin.
Oranges – she smells like fuckingoranges.
“I was…sixteen when I killed her,” I tell her. The words just tumble out of my fucking mouth, like they were aching to be set free or some shit.
Cignette stiffens against me, and momentary silence fills the air as I wait for her to say something. But then, mercifully, she starts turning around, and when our eyes meet, I’m relieved when I don’t see any fear or uncertainty on her face.
“Who?” she asks, then tilts her head.
I swallow, and I don’t know why, but my throat closes up a little as I say, “My mother.”
16. Past
Year 2008
Idipped a makeup brush into the small blush palette –Cheeky Glow, it was called – then brought it over to my face before running it along my cheekbones. Using the pad of my index finger, I then applied a shimmery shadow over my lids, and finished off my look with a wine-red lipstick.
The crooked overhead light in my bathroom flickered, casting hideous shadows on some of the cracked and discolored tiles in the room, and when I stepped away from my messy counter, the light shut down completely, dousing me in darkness.
I reached for the switch next to the mirror, fiddled with it a few times, and then looked up when the light refused to turn on again.
I took another step back and pulled at the straps of the crimson A-line dress I was wearing. It was from Mom’s old wardrobe, and she’d been nothing less than hostile when she’d given it to me earlier.
“You better not fuck this up for me,” she’d told me. “Marcus is a wealthy client. You will let him do whatever it is that he wants to you, and for however long he wishes to. By the end of it, you and I will have enough cash to last us at least the rest of the year.”
I’d said nothing in return. I never did. I simply did as I was told, or the beating I received for my defiance kept me up several nights on end with harrowing pain and flashes of dreadful memories.
I didn’t know where, or how, she found these clients. But she did, and they were always rich, middle-aged suburban men.
Marco was one of the many clients I’d had over the last two years – all of whom were fucked up to their very bones. I had three small suitcases full of costumes for them, because each and every one of them had different and very specific…tastes, for lack of a better word.
Someone wanted a nurse, while the other wanted a cop. Some wanted a barista, while the others wanted a schoolgirl. The list went on and on, and so did the nightmares I’d have after each of these encounters.
It wasn’t like this two years ago – when my dad was still alive. It was easier to avoid Mom throughout the day because I’d be at school for most of it, and focus on my homework or assignments during the night. The only times Ihadto endure her presence was during the weekends, and even then, we barely spoke or looked at each other. She was always busy whining to my dad about how he didn’t earn enough; how she had to work double-shifts at the salon just to “put food on the table every single day”. He’d avoid her, she’d yell at him, and he’d walk out of the house, only to return the next day.
Things changed when he died two years ago. He was found dead at the end of the street where he worked as a mechanic. The cops said he’d had too much to drink, had probably passed out on the sidewalk, and had ended up choking on his own vomit, which in turn had led to his death. I’d cried for days – not because he was an amazing father, but because he was my only shield against my monster of a mother. When he died, I knew I only had hell to suffer. My dad may not have been the best, but he at least treated me like I was a damn human being.
Mom pulled me out of school after Dad’s passing. At first, she started having men over asherclients, but when one of them saw me and decided to ditch her forme, she realized she could cater to fucked up men with fucked up fetishes with me as the scapegoat, and earn far more than she otherwise could.
When she’d proposed the idea to me all those months ago, I’d only been fourteen. I’d protested when she’d tried to force me to comply; I’d tried to run away, too. But she’d locked me in my room and had had random men come in and fuck me till I was screaming and bleeding. And, when I’d pleaded with her to help me with the bruises, she’d declined me and left me to fend for myself.
After a few times, though, I’dhadto give up on my protests and oblige her, because otherwise, I’d either end up dead and forgotten like my dad, or worse.
I’d thought about those outcomes a few times. Compared to the life I lived – onenooneshould have to – death seemed like paradise. But dying would also mean that my mother would win, and I most certainly couldn’t let that happen.
