Chapter 4
Next Friday
The world spins when I open my eyes.
Not slowly, not gently. It tilts like a ship in a storm, hurling me sideways inside my own body. My stomach churns before I’ve even moved. The taste in my mouth is sour, like regret soaked in whiskey.
The bed under me is unfamiliar. The sheets are too soft, too clean, too white. There’s a smear of mascara on the pillow beside my head, a line of black that looks like something melted.
A man is beside me.
Not the one from Monday. Not even the one from the Waverly Last Friday. Someone new. His face is buried in the pillow, mouth slightly open. A line of drool creeps toward the edge of the mattress.
I can’t remember his name. Or his voice. Or anything past the third drink. I slide out from under the sheets carefully, like slipping out of a lie. His hand twitches near my hip as I move, but he doesn’t wake.
Thank God.
My dress is crumpled at the foot of the bed, still inside-out. I pull it on and find one strap hanging by a thread. It sags down my arm as I shuffle into my heels. My purse is on the floor, half-open, lipstick smeared on the lining. I check for my phone. The screen is dark.
No missed calls.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore.
I don’t even bother with the mirror on the way out. I already know what I look like. Hollow eyes. Smudged eyeliner. Bruised thighs. A mouth that doesn’t know how to say no anymore.
The hallway outside his apartment smells like bleach and stale beer. I walk past a door with a cracked frame, a baby crying somewhere behind it. A dog barks on another floor. Somewhere, a TV blasts static. The kind of building where everyone is surviving from something, and no one asks questions.
I step outside into the morning. Cold air slaps me across the face. It wakes me more than the coffee I won’t drink.
The streets are wet with last night’s rain. My heels click too loudly on the pavement. I pass two joggers in neon windbreakers, their skin dewy with effort and purpose. One of them glances at me, his eyes sliding over my dress, my smeared makeup, my crooked shoes.
He looks away fast.
I wish I could. But I’m still inside this body. Still dragging it home like a grave I sleep in.
I walk five blocks barefoot. The broken heel cuts into my skin, so I carry the shoes instead. A cab honks.
A man in a truck whistles.
Someone calls me “sweetheart” and offers a ride.
I flip him off and keep walking.
The city looks so clean in the morning. Like it forgot what it did the night before. Like it gets to start over.
By the time I reach my apartment, my feet are numb. My fingers shake as I unlock the door.
Inside, the air is stale. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the counter from two days ago. The TV remote is wedged under the couch cushion. My sheets are still twisted from the last night I tried to sleep.
I drop my purse. It lands with a thud. I strip in silence. The dress pools on the floor, joining a pile of clothes I haven’t washed in weeks.
I make it to the couch before the tears start. I don’t sob. That would require feeling something. These tears are quiet. Slow. Just water leaking out of a body that’s forgotten how to care.
I lie down, the leather cool against my back.
My phone buzzes once.
I reach for it.
It’s a message from my manager at The Velvet Room:
Need you in at seven. Don’t be late.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur.
I want to scream. I want to quit. I want to set fire to this apartment and disappear into the smoke.
Instead, I send a thumbs-up emoji. Then I get up, stumble to the bathroom, and swallow two Tylenol with tap water that tastes like rust.
In the mirror, I look like a ghost of someone who used to be alive. Someone who used to wear promises like perfume.
Now I just smell like regret and sweat. There’s a bruise on my collarbone. Faint. Oval-shaped. I touch it and flinch. I don’t remember him biting me.
But it’s there.
Proof that it wasn’t a dream but a waking nightmare.
The day passes in fragments. I doze on the couch, wake up sweating. I eat half a granola bar. I scroll through my phone until my thumb goes numb.
Still no messages.
Still no calls.
I could disappear and no one would notice until the rent went unpaid and my phone got cut off.
By five, I’m in the shower again. Hot water. Scrubbing hard enough to make my skin red. I stand there until the hot turns cold.
I don’t get dressed right away. I sit on the edge of the tub, dripping.
Naked. Tired. Empty.
Then I reach for the little plastic bag I keep in my top drawer.
Just a bump. Just enough to feel something.
The powder hits fast.
The high comes like it always does. Rushed, shallow, but just enough. I dress in black again. It’s the only color that doesn’t scream when I look at it.
Back at The Velvet Room, the night picks up fast. A line wraps around the block. People clawing for entry like what’s inside will save them.
It won’t.
Inside, it’s the same parade of perfume, cologne, bad decisions, and lies.
The lights feel harsher tonight. The music bites at my eardrums. I wince, but I keep pouring. Keep shaking. Keep pretending.
A man asks for a drink I’ve made a thousand times, but for a second, I forget how. I stare at the bottles like they’re written in another language.
My hands shake.
Jazz notices.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t push.
The man at the bar taps impatiently. I make his drink. He doesn’t tip.
Around midnight, I sneak outside for air. The alley smells like piss and cigarettes.
I sit on a milk crate and light a smoke, the end glowing in the dark. My hands are still trembling. Someone walks past me and doesn’t say a word. I wonder if I still exist.
I finish the cigarette and go back inside. There’s a new guy at the bar now.
He looks familiar.
Green eyes. Clean haircut. Quiet.
He doesn’t flirt. He just watches me. And that makes me more uncomfortable than the ones who undress me with their eyes.
At the end of the night, I count my tips. One hundred and sixty dollars. Not bad. Not great. Just enough. I clock out. Grab my bag. Walk out into the cold.
The city is still awake.
And so am I.
I walk toward the next club without thinking. The music pulls me like a tide.
Inside, everything is louder. Dirtier. Sweatier.
I recognize one of the bouncers. He nods me in.
I make it to the bar. Order a drink I won’t finish.
Accept a pill I don’t question. The world begins to blur again.
It’s easier that way. The pain softens. The noise swells.
And for a few hours, I don’t have to be Lana.
I can just be a body in motion. A ghost in heels. A girl trying not to drown.