1. VERENA GRAVENHURST
ONE
VERENA GRAVENHURST
My life is a graveyard of days. A cemetery of time spent yearning for a life that’s more than just existing.
I often wonder who I would be, had the death of my mother and the absence of my father not stolen the light of my younger years.
If a drunk driver hadn’t taken her from me at such a young age, sentencing me to four years of moving between foster homes like a burden no one wanted.
I didn’t just lose my mom; I lost myself, like I had perished along with her on that horrible night.
It’s been five years, and the news of her death still haunts my every thought.
They say time heals all wounds, and maybe they’re right.
But to heal a laceration as deep as the grief I hold, well, it would take a lifetime of mending.
“Smile, sweetheart,” a man drawls, dragging me back to the present as I carry a heavy tray of sloshing, cheap beers towards his table.
The bar is tepid and dingy tonight, the lights dimmed so low that I’m surprised I haven’t tripped over my own feet.
I’m nearing the end of my shift, but it’s a Saturday night and a new wave of customers just rolled in.
Night shifts are dreadful, and as I approach the table I’ve been assigned to, I have a feeling this particular night is about to get much worse.
“What’s the point of having a pretty little face like yours, if you’re always frowning?
” His lips curl predatorily, and I grimace at the sight of his rotting teeth.
I stay quiet, ignoring his comment, though my mind reels.
Thankfully, my poker face is exceptional when I find myself in predicaments such as this.
A ripple of laughter echoes through his entourage, but I remain stoic, dutifully placing the glasses down in front of them.
My hands tremble under the weight of the tray, causing them to clink against each other.
I catch the way their voracious eyes trail over my body with unapologetic hunger, and I long to gouge them out with a fork.
Or at the very least, bruise their undiluted egos.
But, if I’ve learned one thing while working at The Garnet Cavern, or dealing with men in general, it’s that standing up for myself is a waste of breath, and talking back only encourages more of their filth.
The gazes of the other three men slither over my skin as I set the final glass down in front of them.
I’m positive I’d feel their breath against my neck if I accidentally leaned forward any further.
Feeling much like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of wolves, I whip up straight and wipe my clammy hands down the front of my apron.
“Is there anything else I can get for you? Maybe some appetizers?” I offer, mustering a smile, though my voice comes out stammered. A pudgy man with greasy, dark brown hair pats his hand on a wooden stool between him and his friend.
“Join us, dollface,” he requests, though it’s more of a demand.
“Sorry, can’t drink on the job,” I simply say.
To any respectable man, this would be the end of the conversation.
Unfortunately, the patrons that frequent this particular bar don’t live up to that standard.
I survived most of my shift without incident, and I thought if I kept my head down until midnight, I could make it home without any altercations, but it seems luck isn’t on my side.
Go figure. Just as I’m about to move on to the next table, a hand grabs a hold of my wrist, and my heart plummets.
“Stay,” he insists, “entertain us.” I watch his eyes flicker down my body, and nausea roils in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t the first time a man has made me uncomfortable, and I’m not naive enough to think it will be the last.
“Let go,” I hiss, attempting to yank my hand away, but his grip only tightens. The others lean in, laughing, while I squirm under his hold, and his grin widens as if my struggle arouses him.
“I said,” he yanks me closer, “stay.”
I stagger forward, my chest halting just above his face, and he flashes me a repulsive grin. The stench of cigarettes, ale and something akin to spoiled milk wafts over me, and I fight back the urge to vomit all over him.
He peers up at me like I’m a prize he’s just won, and I can practically see the grimy thoughts swirling around his mind.
The suggestive gleam in his eyes isn’t a threat; it’s a promise.
Anger surges through me at the audacity of this pig, and before I can weigh the consequences, my free hand finds the handle of the glass in front of him, still full to the brim with beer, and I splash it in his face.
His hold on me instantly releases, and a satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.
The amber liquid bleeds through the front of his already sullied shirt and trousers, dripping from his mustache.
Sputtering a mouthful, his companions grow quiet, and now I’m the one laughing.
My satisfaction is evanescent, though, as a beat of silence echoes throughout the bar, each customer turning towards us to see what all the commotion is about.
The abrupt attention makes me want to crawl out of my own body.
I’ve never been fond of being the centre of attention.
I prefer to stick to the shadows like a true wallflower, avoiding social interaction as much as possible.
Unfortunately for me, this job doesn’t allow such behaviour.
My smile falters. Droplets of beer dribble from his chin and hit the floor with a steady splat, splat, splat.
Suddenly, as if finally coming to his senses, he stands to his feet.
The chair forcefully scrapes across the concrete floor, crashing down with a loud thud.
Every set of eyes in the bar is on us now.
The man’s fists are balled at his side, cheeks beet red from anger.
“You’re going to pay for that, whore!” he spits and then, as if in slow motion, reaches for my throat.
I stumble backwards, but before he could lay his hands on me, the barkeep himself, Mr. Ketterdam, takes an aggravated step between us. For one suspended heartbeat, I think he might actually be on my side, but the displeased look behind his cold eyes tells me otherwise.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?
” he seethes. His calloused hand clamps down on my bicep, rougher than the customer had just moments ago.
His fingers dig into my flesh, and a pain shoots through me.
I can feel a bruise already beginning to form on the surface of my skin from beneath his grip.
“Do you know what kind of trouble you’ve caused?” His stern voice carries through the bar, sending a wave of heat into my cheeks.
“You think men come in here and spend their money just to be insulted by the likes of you?” I stare at the man in disbelief.
“He—he put his hands on me,” I gasp, struggling against his hold, stumbling behind him as he all but drags me through the bar towards the back exit. “Let me go!”
An echo of laughter ripples behind me. The very same men are now leaning back in their chairs, amused by the chaos they’ve unleashed. The rest of the customers carry on with their night as if they hadn’t seen anything at all. Ketterdam’s eyes narrow.
“Put his hands on you?” he scoffs, leaning forward so we’re eye level before he speaks again. “So you let him, if that makes him happy, you stupid, useless girl,” he seethes under his breath.
“You’ve embarrassed my patrons, and most importantly, you’ve embarrassed me. I won’t have a woman’s tantrum ruining the establishment I’ve worked so hard to build.” He tightens his grip, and I wince, jerking my head away from him. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.
“You’re finished here. Get out, and don’t ever come back,” he warns.
With a final squeeze, he shoves me out the door into the back alley and slams it behind me without the pay I’ve rightfully earned for the evening.
Regaining my composure, I stand there for a moment, running a palm over my angry flesh, letting every word sink into my bones.
The bitter truth is, men like Ketterdam don’t care about a woman’s voice. They only care about themselves.
I sprint through the alley. Once I reach the open midnight air, a tear slips free, and I make a promise to myself that no man will ever have the power to make me feel small again.