[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] The Madam awoke the following morning with a pastel painting of cigarette ash and mascara smudged across her pillowcase, smears of ruby-red lipstick swatches on the nicotine-stained bedding like blood spatter. She pressed her face back into the lumpy pillow, nose folding like plasticine, air whistling through squished nostrils like a boiling kettle begging to be taken off the stove. She wanted to fill the innards of that pillow with a guttural scream. Excavate last night's nightmares from every fibre of her being. Pearl's sleep-riddled mind still reeked of Theodore Buxton, his calloused hands skipping across her forearms like skimming stones, his unkempt beard hair scratching at her pointed chin, those storm-filled eyes staring out at her from behind the milk-bottle lenses he used to wear... Her naked limbs rustled beneath the duvet, tightened muscles and pounding headache plunging her in an ice-cold pool of sobriety. She squeezed her eyelids shut, skin puckering like sultanas, squeezing so hard that floaters began meandering across her line of vision. SoirΓ©e was quiet at this time of morning. The beams and the bricks remained haunted by the demons of corrupted souls who had trickled out of the front doors mere hours ago, the smell of stale smoke clung to the air, pigeons cooed on pylon wiring outside Pearl's bedroom window. But it was peaceful in the whore house between the hours of 8am and 10am. Pearl made it a house rule that any Johns paying night rates had to vacate the premises by 8am, giving the girls a couple hours of downtime before they clocked back in at 10. Daytimes were, of course, slower than evenings. But there remained daylight regulars that graced SoirΓ©e in their work attire: All pinstriped suits and briefcases and a belly full of breakfast cooked by their doting wives. The Madam slid her legs out from beneath the duvet and touched her soles to the sun-warmed wooden floorboards. She had the kind of hangover that felt like pinpricks beneath her skin and the kind of mind that sounded like a traffic-clogged freeway full of hot, frustrated drivers honking their horns and yelling through open windows. Sobriety don't suit Pearly Sackville. Stretched and blue like a bruise. Crisp and cracking like a week-old scab. Sore like a whitlow, reddened and angry, protruding from a gnarled nail bed. She practically crawled, wincing through gritted teeth still furry from the late-night whiskey, to the en suite bathroom. The tiles were all tracked with black mould and peachy stale water sat swimming in the tub. When was the last time she'd showered?... The room soon filled with thick steam, puffing and pluming before her blood-shot eyes. Was that steam or Theodore's breath still lingering on her neck? She remembered how one day, all those years ago, he'd simply stopped calling by. Every time the SoirΓ©e doors had creaked open, her ears would prick like an eager hound, she'd bound through the corridors to greet the one person she'd been waiting so melancholic to see. Only to be shooed away by her Mother's dismissive wave and daggered sideways glance. Theodore Buxton never even said goodbye. No "It's not you - It's me." Not even a letter. He was simply there one minute and gone the next. Little Pearly Girl had cried so much her eyeballs may have drowned. She'd cried until her throat became raw, cried until saltwater shone across her lips, cried until her mum's babydolls had knocked on her bedroom door to tell her to keep it down. She'd wailed his name like a cat in heat, she'd clawed at the inside of her arms until her skin lobstered like sunburn. And when that shroud of inconsolable, unstoppable and impossible hysteria finally lifted, Pearl swore to herself she simply would never allow a John to have access to her the same way again. And like the final twist of a key in the lock, Moira's voice imprinted on that not-yet-formed brain of hers: [quote][i] "Pearly, these Johns don't owe you nothin' 'cept a fistful of cash, alright?"[/i] her mother had said, the first and last time Pearl had sought comfort from Moira Sackville about Theodore Buxton. Or about anything, really. Desperate-flavoured advice. Words that tasted like stale bread and curdled milk. [i]"He was fillin' your head with nonsense about love, weren't he? Said you were his favourite little girl? His pretty little Pearl? Buyin' you thangs? Takin' you places? Promisin' you a better life than this one, right? See? I weren't even there and I know damned well what that John had you fallin' for. Well, Pearly. Let this be a goddamn lesson to you. You are not here to be swept off your feet. You're not here to be [b]loved[/b]. You are not here to be [b]adored[/b] or doted on. That? That is a fairytale. It's not real. Sooner or later Johns get bored. And that's what happened with Theodore fuckin' Buxton. He got bored, mmkay? He's gone back to his wife and his life and his kids and his house. And you're still here. All that time you wasted with him for free? Not bein' paid? Not payin' your way round here? You ain't gettin' that back. Know what you can do, Pearly? Stop all that fuckin' racket and get yourself ready for work. And close the door on your way out."[/i] [/quote] Pearl had her towel wrapped round her back with one corner gripped in each fist, sliding it back and forth across her damp shoulder blades, the crisp material continually and relentlessly scraping at her dry skin. She sniffed and blinked and cleared her rasping throat. She avoided the eyes of that ghastly reflection above the sink, a misted mirror imitating her swallowed sadness, despite her shame she wiped away the condensation and forced herself to meet her own gaze. The crooked woman with blotched skin and soaked spaghetti hair was a stranger to her. A creature Pearl would look down her nose at in the street. Silver struck through her midnight sky curls like forks of lightning. Crows feet fanned out from the corners of her vacant, unblinking eyes. Flesh that once stretched so tight across her jaw and her neck had begun melting, textured like orange peel, seemingly flaking away like pith with a vascularity the red roadmap in her eyes envied. Pearl's upper lip curled. Her eyes lowered. She burst out of the bathroom as if leaving a gas chamber, breaths shallowed and sharp as paper cuts. The subject of Dixie seeped into her psyche, replacing the echoed words of her Mother from all those years ago, replacing Luca's slack jaw, replacing the resentment for her own reflection. She had to deal with her. Dixie. Today. Now. The Madam opened one of her bedside drawers. Using the back of her hand, she knocked away an empty liquor bottle, rustled and riffled through miscellaneous wrappers and empty cigarette packets, tears still trailed down her cheeks. There, beneath the collateral, she found a likely clean G-String and a pair of tights. Dixie's pleading cries ring in her ears. Pearl's feet aim for the leg holes of her panties and miss. Twice. Dixie's widened eyes stare back at her. She looks like a deer in crosshairs. Acrylic nails scratch against her shins as she shimmies the lace up her legs. Dixie's bottom lip quivers. Her toe nails catch on the 15 denier as Pearl stomps into the hosiery with shaken determination. Dixie's doe eyes line up with the barrel of the Smithy and a desperate gargle bubbles in her throat. That sharpened pinky nail catches on the right and wrong thread. A ladder appears. It tears from Pearly's scarred knee all the way to the downy hair of her thigh. It's deathly silent as Dixie's body hits the carpet. The ladder, like a jagged staircase, creeps further and further up her leg as Pearly pries her finger between the material and pulls the tights up and up and up until the waistband sits beneath her bare breasts. The elastic pings comedically, slapping against her flesh as she lets it go. She looks down at the tear, blurry yet magnified through the looking glass of her tears. Dixie's lifeless eyes are fixed straight ahead, staring out into the abyss. It's just a pair of tights, Pearl. For fucks sake. Nothing to cry about.