Hush, Little Baby

Charlie

“Everything’s negative. No need for a follow-up,” the doctor tells me.

Again.

Over a message in my chart.

I stare at my phone screen for what seems like the thousandth time, both numb to those seven words and completely and utterly shattered by them.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.

Give up?

Maybe I should.

A tear rolls down my cheek, burning a little river of grief into my skin. Grief for what, Charlie? Not having a terrible incurable disease?

No…

It’s hard to explain.

But when you’ve been deteriorating every year for the past decade of your life, with nothing to help…

You’d rather have a terrible incurable disease with answers and treatments than a wave of a hand, shooing you away.

This had been my last chance.

I’m turning twenty-six next week. And instead of being excited, the thought of my birthday this year fills me with unimaginable dread. Why? Not even because I don’t have any friends to celebrate with, or any money to go on a fun trip with, or… or anything.

Those are my norms. They’ve never stopped me from enjoying my birthdays in the past. No. It’s because I live in the grand ole’ U.S. of A., and I stop being covered by my parents’ health insurance once I hit the big two-six.

I’m already in debt just from living in my apartment—which, sometimes, I wish the cockroaches had to pay rent, too. Then maybe I could swing for groceries I could use to make actual meals with, not just microwaveable dinners and over-processed mini muffins.

I press my thumb harder into the screen like it might change the words if I just try enough.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

A shaky breath slips out of me, and I drag my sleeve across my face, smearing the tear away before it can fall onto my shirt.

Not that it matters. This is one of the older ones anyway, stretched out at the collar and soft in that worn-down way that means it’s been washed too many times and still never quite feels clean.

My chest hurts. Not the sharp, stabbing kind of pain, but that constant aching, heavy pressure like someone set a weight on me and forgot to take it off.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, even though there’s no one here to hear it. “It’ll be okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay.

It feels like a door just slammed shut in my face, and I’m standing on the wrong side of it with no idea how to get back in.

I look around my apartment, really look at it, like I haven’t in a while.

The flickering kitchen light, the stack of unopened mail on the counter, the corner where the wall’s peeling just enough that I’ve started picking at it when I can’t sleep, the roach poop that I’m sure is doing wonders for my lungs.

This place isn’t meant for living.

It’s just… where I exist.

Another wave of exhaustion rolls through me, sudden and overwhelming enough that my knees wobble a little.

I grab the edge of the counter, breathing through it, waiting for my body to decide it’s done punishing me for…

whatever I did this time. Standing too long?

Not eating enough? Eating the wrong thing?

Who knows?

That’s the problem.

I close my eyes.

I can’t stay here tonight.

The thought comes out of nowhere, but once it’s there, it sticks.

If I stay here, I’m just going to spiral. I can already feel it starting—that tight, suffocating feeling in my chest, the way my thoughts start looping and turning ugly.

Worthless. Dramatic. Lazy. Fine. You’re fine. Stop making it a thing—

“No,” I mutter, shaking my head as if I can physically knock the thoughts loose. “Nope. Not doing that tonight.” My voice sounds small in the empty apartment.

I push away from the counter and shuffle toward my bedroom, grabbing my hoodie off the back of the chair.

It’s the gray one, soft from years of washing, oversized in the way that means the sleeves hang past my knuckles if I don’t push them up.

I tug it on and bury my hands in the fabric for a second before I make sure I have my keys and phone.

I hesitate at the mirror by the door.

My face looks tired in the way that sleep doesn’t fix.

I’m five-foot-six, and the hoodie hides most of me, which is the point.

I know what’s under it. The soft places, the stretch marks fanned out across my hips and belly.

I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror below the shoulders in almost a year.

The last time I did, I stood there for too long and felt something go quiet inside me that I haven’t been able to get loud again.

“No one wants me anyway,” I tell my reflection. My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “It doesn’t matter.”

The drive over feels longer than usual, even though it’s not. My hands feel stiff on the steering wheel, and I have to adjust my grip every few minutes, flexing my fingers to keep them from locking up.

But as the familiar sign comes into view, something in my chest loosens.

The club doesn’t look like much from the outside. I’ve never seen one that does. That’s kind of the point. If you didn’t know what it was, you’d probably just assume it was another bar or some kind of private lounge.

I pull in and park in their small lot, taking a second before I get out of the car. My body’s already protesting the short walk I’m about to make, fatigue dragging at my limbs like I’m wading through sludge.

Still, I manage.

“Hey, Charlie,” Lana from the front desk greets me, her outfit tonight just as tight and sexy as ever. Her long blonde hair is tied up in a sleek, high pony, and her cheekbones are highlighted to the gods.

“Hi, Lana,” I say back to her. “Is it busy tonight?”

I hope not.

I really, really prefer when I get the little room all to myself.

“More or less,” she answers, giving me a sympathetic smile. “There’s a rope demo in a few minutes in the dungeon, though, and I think that’s where most of them are.”

“Okay.”

I go to walk in when she calls out, “Oh, happy early birthday, by the way! I saw it on your membership profile.”

“Oh… thank you,” I murmur in response. She doesn’t know. She’s just trying to be nice.

Inside, the club’s music is set at a deliberate hush, a throbbing heartbeat muffled beneath the low hum of conversation and the occasional metallic clink of ice in glasses.

The main lounge area is bathed in a soft, amber glow that manages to be both flattering and faintly unreal, as if the air itself is thickened by the low light and the secrecy of the place.

I hover by the entrance for a moment longer, letting the warmth and the subtle scent of leather and clove soak into me, then start my walk, with my chin tucked and my gaze fixed on the carpet patterns.

I pass by alcoves and private rooms whose doors are drawn or cracked open just enough to hint at the silhouettes within.

Bits of laughter slip out, and sometimes the wordless pulse of something more desperate or delighted, but I block them out with practiced indifference.

Here, exposure is both the currency and the risk, and I want as little of it as possible.

I walk faster, ignoring the pairs and trios populating the velvet booths or perched along the bar, all with their own choreography of hands and mouths and glances.

There are people here I recognize—sometimes from other nights, sometimes from the flash of a profile photo in a message thread that never went anywhere—but I don’t acknowledge any of them.

Instead, I focus on the hallway at the far end, where the lights get a bit brighter and the sounds from the main areas start to die down just a little.

That’s where my room is.

Well, not really my room, as much as I sometimes like to pretend it is.

We call it the little room, but it’s not always for littles. Sometimes it’s for anyone who can’t breathe in the main dungeon or who wants to be small and unremarkable for a while. There’s a sign on the door that says, “Please respect the space and each other,” and I always do.

I slow down just before the windows start—big, reinforced panes set in deep wooden frames.

I cross my fingers in my hoodie pocket and mutter a silent plea to the universe that the room is empty tonight.

The last thing I want is to walk in on a couple in the middle of some perfect, pastel daydream.

They don’t mean anything by it, but it hurts, and I’m tired of hurting. Especially tonight.

I peek around the glass with the caution of a stray cat, an involuntary smile stretching across my face as I realize it’s empty.

I open the door and slip inside like it’s a secret, letting it close quietly behind me.

The air in here is different, somehow softer than anywhere else in the building.

It smells like fruity hand sanitizer, old crayons, and a faint, reassuring note of cleaning spray.

The walls are painted a gentle turquoise, and the lighting is bright but not harsh, as if whoever designed the space wanted to remind people what noon on a spring day looks like.

Bright foam mats in cheery primary colors cover the floor, and shelves line the walls with bins and baskets overflowing with toys, picture books, and tactile fidgets.

There’s one corner with sensory tiles set into the wall—little patches you can run your hands across, each with a different texture or temperature.

Next to that, a small tent shaped like a frog is surrounded by a heap of plushies, some pristine and some so obviously loved that their faces are faded and their stuffing has migrated far from its original coordinates.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, just letting the room happen to me. A classic children’s movie is playing on the TV, and I watch as cartoon dogs walk side by side down an alleyway.

I take a slow breath, and the tension in my chest begins to melt. For the first time in what feels like hours, I’m not clenching my jaw or digging my nails into my palms. I just… am.