[right][sub]__________ π™ΏπšŽπšŠπš›πš• πš‚πšŠπšŒπš”πšŸπš’πš•πš•πšŽ π™Όπš’πš—πš—πšŽπš—πš˜πš˜πš—πšŠ, πš†π™Έ __________ [/sub][/right] [centre][h2] πšˆπšŽπšŠπš›πšœ πšŠπš—πš πš’πšŽπšŠπš›πšœ πšŠπšπš˜β€¦[/h2][/centre] [centre][url=https://youtu.be/Dko6eQl4w2s?si=N6tCeBqLSTSo7qrw]π™Ώπš›πšŽπšŒπš’πš˜πšžπšœ π™ΏπšŽπšŠπš›πš•πš’ π™Άπš’πš›πš• & πšƒπš‘πšŽπš˜πšπš˜πš›πšŽ π™±πšžπš‘πšπš˜πš— [/url] [/centre] Mama always taught her Precious Pearly Girl that a John was the reason she had a roof over her pretty lil’ head, clothes on her back and food on the table. Johns weren’t always called John. Sometimes they were Brad. Or Elijah. Or Terry. Or JosΓ©. Sometimes Johns weren’t even Johns. They were Janes. When she was just 16 years old, Mama said that Janes were Pearly’s weakest point. [quote] β€œ[i]What’s wrong with you, Pearly? A Jane is just as important as a John. You ain’t to treat them no different, ya hear? They’re the reason you got a roof over your pretty lil’ head, clothes on -[/i]β€œ [/quote] etc etc How could she explain to Madam Moira that she wanted to flinch every time a Jane touched her thigh? Her eyes would sting like the acetone on her nibbled fingers each time a Jane pressed her velvet lips on hers. How could she articulate the sickness she felt with every scrape of a fingernail down her walls? Johns were fuckin’ easy. Pearly just followed set steps of service with the men. It was like a game of hop scotch in chalk on the sidewalk. Left foot. Right foot. Both feet. etc etc But those empty husks of women that arrived at SoirΓ©e looking for company? The ones that smelt like lavender, talc and tobacco with their hosiery and kitten heels? They made Pearl want to scream until her lungs fissured, fractured and fell apart. Mr Theodore Buxton was different, though. He wasn’t really a John anymore, anyway. They’d surpassed that stage! He didn’t even really pay anymore! He said it wasn’t normal for a boyfriend to pay for his girlfriend’s time. Pearl’s heart had practically dropped out the bottom of her lollipop ankles when he’d said that. Boyfriend? Theodore? He went from a John that visited her once a month to a once a week regular. Theodore had always been sweet on her. He liked missionary and kissing and talking. He always started with the talking. She liked that part the best. Pearl and Theo spoke about everything. He was a Military Man, he said. He was just taking a break, though. That’s what he said. Something about his mind needing a rest. Sometimes Theodore would tell her tales of his bravery and once upon a times of rescuing comrades and dodging bullets by the skin of his teeth. He had medals. At home. Other times, he didn’t want to say a word about war. Those times, Theodore didn’t want to hug her or hold her hand or stroke her hair. His face would twist like a pretzel and he’d shove his thing in her so hard she’d gasp for air that would ball its fist inside her throat and tug on her tonsils. He’d grunt and snarl and tell her nasty things. Things he’d apologise for weeks later. She’d smile and say it’s okay and tell him she loved him. But those nasty little words would thread themselves like chicken wire into her brave, wry smile. Those things would make her palms slick with sweat and shake beneath the sheets. Theodore liked to be called daddy. At first, Pearly’s teeth would natter around the word, nibbling around it like a child may avoid greens on a plate. Like how she’d pick out the raisins from the cookies he’d bring her. But she got used to it. She’d greet him at SoirΓ©e by running and jumping into his arms, giggling and kicking her feet as they hung inches and inches off the ground. He always kept boiled sweets in a tin in his car. One day Pearly was suckling on one, making it small and smooth as a pebble on her tongue, when Theodore suddenly said he had to stop off somewhere and pick someone up. Pearly had nodded gleefully and stared out the passenger window at the rain-slicked, chewing gum dappled sidewalks of Minnenoona. She tapped her ballet pumps in the footwell, humming as Theodore drove the car in silence. When they mounted the curb minutes later, she’d watched through narrowed eyes as a little girl approached the parked car. She was in school uniform. A checkered pinafore dress and a bowler hat. She had his eyes. When she popped the back door and clambered into the backseat, Pearl looked at Theodore with a widened, pleading stare. [quote] β€œ[i]Is Mummy not picking me up today, Daddy[/i]?” the little girl had asked, her voice squeaky like new shoes. Pearl crunched her molars down on the suckled boiled sweet. It shattered like shards of glass in her mouth. Shattered like the fragments of her heart that now tinkered like a wind chime in her chest.[/quote] [quote] β€œ[i]No, sweetheart[/i]” Theodore had replied, his eyes fixed on a streetlamp unblinking and avoidant. [/quote] [quote] β€œ[i]Okay. Who’s that, Daddy?[/i]” she’d barked, accusation refracted in the rearview mirror. [/quote] [quote][i] β€œThis is Daddy’s friend’s daughter,” [/i]Theodore answered too quickly. β€œ[i]I’m taking her home now.[/i]”[/quote] [quote] β€œ[i]Was she at school today, too[/i]?”[/quote] [quote]β€œ[i]She wasn’t very well so Daddy picked her up. As a favour to his friend,[/i]” Theodore turned the wheel of the car. He repeated again, parroting his own stupid self. β€œ[i]I’m taking her home now.[/i]”[/quote] Pearl’s nails dug into her knees. They dug in so hard she wondered if she could scoop out her knee caps like sand into a bucket and launch them at the man sat rigidly in the drivers seat. She wasn’t sure who she hated more… The little girl in the backseat? Or the Mummy who hadn’t picked up her daughter that day. [right][sub]__________ π™ΏπšŽπšŠπš›πš• πš‚πšŠπšŒπš”πšŸπš’πš•πš•πšŽ πš‚πš˜πš’πš›Γ©πšŽ 𝟼𝟿 π™Άπš›πšŽπšŽπš πš‚πšπš›πšŽπšŽπš π™Όπš’πš—πš—πšŽπš—πš˜πš˜πš—πšŠ, πš†π™Έ __________ [/sub][/right] As the sun began to rise beyond the windows of SoirΓ©e, Pearl retired to her bedroom with the remnants of a bottle of whiskey in one hand and her tin of cigarettes in the other. She clicked her bedroom door shut, flipping the latch and swaying like a willow tree in the wind before stumbling to her unmade bed. Kicking aside her high heels and fumbling with her dress, Pearly stripped to her skin and flopped onto the mattress. The springs cried out, creaking with rust beneath her. She wrapped her lips around the neck of the whiskey bottle, upturning it to deposit a full mouthful of her β€œgoodnight” and β€œsleep tight.” It burned down the length of her throat. It deleted the noise in her mind. She stared up at the ceiling overhead, the image of a very dead Luca flashing before her. His bulging eyes were the last thing she remembered seeing before she let sleep accost her with its chilling embrace. She’d decide what to do with Dixie tomorrow. For now, she would get a precious few hours sleep. Theodore kidnapped her dreams last night, the smell of his cologne seemed to cling to her nose hairs. [centre][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019db9d6-fc55-74be-86b3-ddb53d0f8cce.webp[/img][/centre]