Member
TokyoPewPew
Krasnaya
Bork
Stryder BC
Lunamaria Hawke
ShankySpice
RPM
FourtyTwo
Nallore__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝟷𝟶𝟻 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝙵𝚕𝚊𝚝 𝟺
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝟷𝟶𝟻 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝙵𝚕𝚊𝚝 𝟺
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________
𝟸𝟷 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝙰𝚐𝚘…
This one smells like stale smoke. It clings to him like a needy lover. His eyes, 2 pissholes in the snow, stare back at her with a cavernous hunger. A hunger she’d come to recognise as her burden to bear.
Her Mother spoke with a constant flippancy, haphazard and noncommittal, as if she were tossing sullied panties into the wash basket. Pearl’s Mother made a habit of bestowing these lumps of coal disguised as wisdom upon her at times like these. This time, Moira Sackville hadn’t cared that the topic of discussion was very much in the room with them, listening from the sidelines with pig ears sprouting cress. Occupying a sliver of the doorway, the Madam that Pearl occasionally called “Mama”, watched on with half-moon glasses perched at the tip of her button nose. Lips slashed above her pointed chin like paper cuts, over-lined and over-drawn, bleeding into a macabre half-smile. Raised brows and a clear of her throat foreshadowed the Madam’s imminent departure. Not before she shot a warning look in her 14 year old daughter’s direction.
The bedroom door swung shut. Familiar clicks of kitten heels faded down the corridor. Her ears strained to listen right up until she heard the slam of a car door outside the curtained bedroom window. Then? Silence. Pearl sat on the edge of Mr Svenson’s bed, matchstick legs straightened all rigor mortis, save her sliding right off the precipice. Hands still podgy with youth were clasped in her lap, eyes lowered, focusing and un-focusing on a strange-shaped knot in the wooden floorboards. Her painted fingernails cut crescent moons into her palms, skin beading with sweat. The dress Moira had tugged over her head 2 hours prior hung limply around her concave shoulders, skimming the crowns of her kneecaps, as if she’d raided her Mother’s closet. Clumsy hands fumbled with the zip at the nape of her neck, like a digger trying to find a needle in a haystack. Pearly stayed deathly still, barely breathing, vision blurring at the edges. Mr Svenson’s haggard breaths offended her cheeks, the poisoned smell of liquor making her nose crumple, the belly that jutted forth from above his belt brushed at her jagged elbow. He went on like this, scrambling at the metal of the zip that jangled like a keychain, until finally Mr Svenson tugged it down and the material fell away like a dust sheet. He grunted. She blinked.
Pearly shuffled back obediently, her muscles crying out, and she spread herself like a starfish across the checkered wooly blankets. There were burn-holes hither and tither. It smelt like mothballs. He smelt like sweat dressed as cologne for the night. It didn’t matter how many times a John climbed aboard, Pearl was always surprised by the weight of them. They never seemed discouraged by her plume of breath as they lowered themselves, her body disappearing beneath theirs. Belt buckle rung out, another stubborn zipper, followed by that filling feeling that left her empty and elsewhere. She stared up at the ceiling, smiling at the damp patches (they sorta look like sheep at this angle, huh?) and she counted to 30 like the Dolls had taught her.
7, 8, 9…
Bedsprings squeaked like mice in the walls, headboard creaking, grunts like a bass drum rhythmic and predictable.
17… 18, 19… 20
Dora was right. She often was. Pearly’s eyes, glazed like doughnuts, remained fixated on the sheep in the ceiling vacant and unblinking.
21, 22, 23…
And she parroted those noises the Dolls had taught her. Funny noises, they were. Somewhere between the sobs she’d bury in her pillow late at night and the gasp of surprise when the Dolls surprised her with a cake on her 14th Birthday.
26,27,28 -
Mr Svenson juddered as if his engine were failing. He convulsed. Spasming as he made funny noises of his own. ‘Cept his were different. They reminded her of someone struggling to get their shoes on after too many Manhattans. Pearl smiled up at the plaster sheep in the sky. Smiled even as he climbed off of her, which was usually the worst part, and smiled still as he yanked his zipper and refastened his belt. The man shuffled from one foot to the other, limbs awkwardly fastened to him and hanging unknowingly at his sides. She raised up onto her elbows, looking at him for the first time.
Pearl bounced as she shuffled off the bed like skirting down the slide of a bouncy castle, sliding her arms back into the sleeves of her too-big dress and eyeing the door like a caged animal. It felt like a thousand steps before her hands clasped the door handle.
With a small nod, she left the house on Baker Street. It was a room she’d visit a few more times before she turned 15. Always accompanied by her Mama who, on this night in particular, waited impatiently in the parked car outside chain smoking cigarettes. As Pearly shrunk into the passenger seat beside her with the cash gripped in one hand, seatbelt in the other, she stole a glance at her Mother who watched her expectantly. Palm extended, upturned and empty, the Madam awaited Mr Svenson’s payment. The bills passed hands once more, this time taken with a slight snatch. Some kids had their mothers pick them up from sports practice, an afterschool club or a sleepover with friends. Some kids had no idea that there were sheep splotches in ceilings and that even grown men struggled with zippers. Some kids grew up to be doctors, teachers, lawyers… Not Pearly. She became the very same woman who had hand delivered her daughter to strangers houses, dressed in outfits that barely fit her not-quite-womanly figure.
This one smells like stale smoke. It clings to him like a needy lover. His eyes, 2 pissholes in the snow, stare back at her with a cavernous hunger. A hunger she’d come to recognise as her burden to bear.
“You don’t have to like it, Pearly Girl. You must simply endure.”
Her Mother spoke with a constant flippancy, haphazard and noncommittal, as if she were tossing sullied panties into the wash basket. Pearl’s Mother made a habit of bestowing these lumps of coal disguised as wisdom upon her at times like these. This time, Moira Sackville hadn’t cared that the topic of discussion was very much in the room with them, listening from the sidelines with pig ears sprouting cress. Occupying a sliver of the doorway, the Madam that Pearl occasionally called “Mama”, watched on with half-moon glasses perched at the tip of her button nose. Lips slashed above her pointed chin like paper cuts, over-lined and over-drawn, bleeding into a macabre half-smile. Raised brows and a clear of her throat foreshadowed the Madam’s imminent departure. Not before she shot a warning look in her 14 year old daughter’s direction.
“Take good care of Mr Svenson, Pearly Girl. I’ll be outside in the car when you’re done.”
The bedroom door swung shut. Familiar clicks of kitten heels faded down the corridor. Her ears strained to listen right up until she heard the slam of a car door outside the curtained bedroom window. Then? Silence. Pearl sat on the edge of Mr Svenson’s bed, matchstick legs straightened all rigor mortis, save her sliding right off the precipice. Hands still podgy with youth were clasped in her lap, eyes lowered, focusing and un-focusing on a strange-shaped knot in the wooden floorboards. Her painted fingernails cut crescent moons into her palms, skin beading with sweat. The dress Moira had tugged over her head 2 hours prior hung limply around her concave shoulders, skimming the crowns of her kneecaps, as if she’d raided her Mother’s closet. Clumsy hands fumbled with the zip at the nape of her neck, like a digger trying to find a needle in a haystack. Pearly stayed deathly still, barely breathing, vision blurring at the edges. Mr Svenson’s haggard breaths offended her cheeks, the poisoned smell of liquor making her nose crumple, the belly that jutted forth from above his belt brushed at her jagged elbow. He went on like this, scrambling at the metal of the zip that jangled like a keychain, until finally Mr Svenson tugged it down and the material fell away like a dust sheet. He grunted. She blinked.
“I like it better when you lay down,” Mr Svenson huffed, seemingly perturbed by the uncooperative zipper.
Pearly shuffled back obediently, her muscles crying out, and she spread herself like a starfish across the checkered wooly blankets. There were burn-holes hither and tither. It smelt like mothballs. He smelt like sweat dressed as cologne for the night. It didn’t matter how many times a John climbed aboard, Pearl was always surprised by the weight of them. They never seemed discouraged by her plume of breath as they lowered themselves, her body disappearing beneath theirs. Belt buckle rung out, another stubborn zipper, followed by that filling feeling that left her empty and elsewhere. She stared up at the ceiling, smiling at the damp patches (they sorta look like sheep at this angle, huh?) and she counted to 30 like the Dolls had taught her.
7, 8, 9…
Bedsprings squeaked like mice in the walls, headboard creaking, grunts like a bass drum rhythmic and predictable.
17… 18, 19… 20
“Pearly. Listen to me. the Johns’ll be quicker if you make these noises, mmkay? Do a few of these noises and ‘stead of countin’ to 60 you’ll be countin’ to 30.”
Dora was right. She often was. Pearly’s eyes, glazed like doughnuts, remained fixated on the sheep in the ceiling vacant and unblinking.
21, 22, 23…
And she parroted those noises the Dolls had taught her. Funny noises, they were. Somewhere between the sobs she’d bury in her pillow late at night and the gasp of surprise when the Dolls surprised her with a cake on her 14th Birthday.
26,27,28 -
Mr Svenson juddered as if his engine were failing. He convulsed. Spasming as he made funny noises of his own. ‘Cept his were different. They reminded her of someone struggling to get their shoes on after too many Manhattans. Pearl smiled up at the plaster sheep in the sky. Smiled even as he climbed off of her, which was usually the worst part, and smiled still as he yanked his zipper and refastened his belt. The man shuffled from one foot to the other, limbs awkwardly fastened to him and hanging unknowingly at his sides. She raised up onto her elbows, looking at him for the first time.
“Thank you, Mr Svenson” Pearly said through a tight smile, her voice small and foreign as if spoken by someone else entirely. “I’ll see myself out.”
Pearl bounced as she shuffled off the bed like skirting down the slide of a bouncy castle, sliding her arms back into the sleeves of her too-big dress and eyeing the door like a caged animal. It felt like a thousand steps before her hands clasped the door handle.
“Wait,” he called, his voice snaking its arms around her turned back. Pearly’s head flicked round, the sight of him panting and riffling in his pockets seemed obscene. “Here,” Mr Svenson said gruffly, pressing a small wad of wrinkled bills into her limp hand.
With a small nod, she left the house on Baker Street. It was a room she’d visit a few more times before she turned 15. Always accompanied by her Mama who, on this night in particular, waited impatiently in the parked car outside chain smoking cigarettes. As Pearly shrunk into the passenger seat beside her with the cash gripped in one hand, seatbelt in the other, she stole a glance at her Mother who watched her expectantly. Palm extended, upturned and empty, the Madam awaited Mr Svenson’s payment. The bills passed hands once more, this time taken with a slight snatch. Some kids had their mothers pick them up from sports practice, an afterschool club or a sleepover with friends. Some kids had no idea that there were sheep splotches in ceilings and that even grown men struggled with zippers. Some kids grew up to be doctors, teachers, lawyers… Not Pearly. She became the very same woman who had hand delivered her daughter to strangers houses, dressed in outfits that barely fit her not-quite-womanly figure.
__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________
Pearly did not operate an “open door” policy when it came to her office. In fact, it remained locked from the inside 90% of the time. The room was tucked away on the ground floor, behind the reception desk, window cut up with blinds like a zebra crossing. As did every good Madam, one wall had been dedicated to CCTV monitors, which Pearly watched from the same bureau desk her mother had sat behind. The other walls, nicotine stained and cracked like varicose veins, were covered with sticky-taped photos in a shrine to the Madam’s youth. It was a highlight reel. Exclusively freeze-framing select memories from nights long forgotten. The air in Pearly’s office was consistently hazy with cigarette smoke. The dull hum of music from the Soirée bar below shook the floorboards. She was hunched over the nights takings, shuffling notes like a pack of cards, fingers raking their way over bills as she counted and counted and counted…
A knock at the door.
Hurried. Impatient. Bony.
Pearl lost count. She cursed. Rising to her feet, she crossed the office to the door and flicked the lock. A short, sharp breath cut through her coke-crusted nostrils.
“What the f-“
Roger had his sausage fingers clamped down on her best earner’s shoulder. She arched a brow. The girl had the air of a scolded child, bottom lip puckered and gaze averted. The doorman’s face, smoothed of any decipherable expression, turned to face Dixie like a disapproving school principal. He shook her once. Twice. A whimper fell from her lips. Growing tired of the silence, Pearly took a slow and deliberate step back and with a flick of her wrist, signalled that they could enter. The pair crossed over the threshold bolstering with legs entangled. Only when the office door clicked shut, blind rattling, did Dixie begin to stutter the attempts at an explanation for their intrusion. Pearl waved a hand as if shooing an incessant fly.
“Dixie, darlin’, I know with those precious few brain cells rattlin’ round up there that you think Pearly is immortal and time is of little concern…” exasperated, she slumped back into her chair with a punctuating sniff. “But I’m a busy girl. So, kindly. Will you hurry the fuck on?”
Roger huffed. Another shake.
“Pearly- I-“ Dixie’s words fluffed and foamed in her mouth, refusing to cooperate with a swollen tongue. “I’m sorry, Pearly. I don’t even know how it happened! One minute he’s lovin’ it. He always asks me to do it! And I’m doin’ it just the way he likes, ya know? I’m-“
The silver tin clacks against the wooden desk. Blue flame kisses the end of a cigarette. It fizzes as it illuminates. A shark’s blackened eyes stare out from behind the desk.
“I’m pressin’ down on him, right? He likes it. He told me so! He says ‘Dixie I wanna be blue in the face. Don’t stop even when I tells ya!’”
Dixie’s reenacting the moment now. Clearly overcoming her stage-fright but with fear still laced through every high-pitched note, she acts out the scene. Roge isn’t watching the budget theatre production. His eyes are fixed on Pearly as she leans attentively over the desktop. The babydoll has her arms outstretched, hands poised midair, wrapped around an imaginary oesophagus.
“And I’m doin’ it, okay? Just like I always do. B-But see, Pearly, I guess he had too much to drink tonight or maybe it was the blow or the angle or somethin’… But, well-“
A clenched fist slammed down on the desk. Dixie flinched. Coins tinkered. Pens rattled. Drawers shook on their runners.
“Pearly. He ain’t waking up,” Dixie whined, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. “I think he’s - I think he’s gone.”
And that was the moment that the air shifted. The office tilted. Dixie, Roge, the monitors, the sticky-taped photos, they all flipped on their heads. Seemingly, the entire room froze. Everyone, including Pearly herself, awaited the Madam’s reaction. The cigarette burned between her trembling fingers, unsmoked and half-ash. Her eyes briefly flicked to the ceiling, presumably looking to God for help, but in fact she was finding those sheep in the ceiling. And she was counting.
1… 2… 3…
