“Come now, sweetheart. Where are you going?”

  “Yeah, beautiful, come sit with us.”

  Teresa’s fingers curled tighter around the tray, but she kept her steps measured, her face neutral. She had heard it all before. Just keep moving. Don’t engage. Don’t give them a reason to act the way they do. She needed money and wasn’t against doing things for said money but this was begging for trouble.

  “I—I think I’m okay, sir. I’ll just take my business over here if that’s fine.”

  “Nonsense, girl. Nonsense.”

  Her pulse kicked up. The way they spoke—too familiar, too assured—made her skin prickle. She knew their type. The kind that didn’t take “no” as an answer, only as an opening.

  “Yeah, come over here. I’ve got some money for you if you just want to sit for a bit. Or how about you clean our table, that seems nice yeah? You can scrub my table. I got a nice tip for ya here.” He started thumbing through his cash.

  A soft thump hit the table. A wad of twenties held between two fingers fanned out like an invitation. Another man copied the motion, then another. More bills joined the pile, casual, effortless. The air around them shifted—what had started as friendly now felt more like a transaction.

  “Yeah, just a drink, sweetheart. We’ll make it worth your time.”

  She forced a polite smile, the kind she had worn a thousand times before—the kind that said I know what you’re doing, but I’m not going to fight you on it.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m working. I can’t take drinks on the job.”

  Silence.

  Then, a sharp exhale, like a bull huffing before a charge.

  “Oh, come on now. You don’t want no trouble, do you? We’ve been so nice. The ladies dancing up there ain’t giving no action so how about you come on to the back for me and my friends real quick. We have a good chunk of change here for you.

  I shook my head trying to say no and backing up.

  But something in his voice had changed—I wasn’t sure what. It changed just enough.

  A flick of his wrist. A small black rod, sleek and unmarked, slid from his pocket onto his lap.

  Teresa’s stomach twisted. The movement was casual, but the intent behind it was anything but. The rod was too short to be a baton, too thick to be a pen. It was probably a knife she thought to herself.

  Her grip tightened on the tray.

  The man smiled, all teeth. “Now, sweetheart, don’t be rude. Come give me a dance.”

  The other two cheered, shifting in their seats. They rooted for her to make her way up to the man. His uncut stubble going into its awkward faze, his large rectangular chin looked like a comic book character, and his ugly khaki fedora on his head. He knew he looked pompous didn’t he? They moved around her deliberately blocking her in without ever seeming like they were doing it. The money sat untouched on the table, but now it felt less like an offer and more like bait on a string.

  She was already at the table, they handed her a drink and she drunk a good bit of it. She knew it would probably help her nerves make this go by faster, at least that’s what she hoped. She set the glass down and a weird smear went across the glass and followed her gaze up to the neon sign above. She rubbed her mouth and looked around to see if anyone was watching.

  The air in the neon club seemed off, the room seemed to spin on an axel. The muffled cheers of patrons to the braless dancers on the stage, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of a dj playing music in the corner—all of it felt distant now. The only thing close, the only thing real, was the circle tightening around her.

  Her eyes darted toward the bartender—busy, head down, not caring.

  The tall black bouncer by the door stood leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone.

  No one was looking.

  No one saw she needed help

  Her pulse drummed in her ears to the rhythm of the horrible techno music going on behind her, the smell of cigarettes boosting her anxiety. She knew how to handle nights like this. She knew how to laugh it off, play along just enough to keep things from turning ugly. She had done it before.

  But tonight felt different.

  Tonight, she felt the walls closing in. It felt like she had too. And so she walked to the man and danced. He leaned back in the chair as she worked her way up him. The man opened his eyes and looked down at her cleavage on the low V neck of her shirt. She hated these uniforms but she had to wear them. The man’s hands ran up her sides a couple crinkled up twenties in one of his hand covered in a whitish powder she hadnt seen before now. And now she noticed the glass she had drunk out of, the smear on it was also a powdery substance. She went to back away but then saw her reflection. It moved. Danced with the music, the wall behind the man she was on top of had a mirror and she saw her face.

  The smear was also there right under her nose. She tried to wipe it off but when she did only more colors came with it, first it was white, then red, then blue and finally a dull transparent color.

  “Cmon babe. What are you doing? I didn’t just give u that money to sit on top of me. Get to moving.”

  Her reflection spoke to her. “Yeah get to moving. You know you like this, if you didn’t why did you accept the drink?

  “No, that’s not true. I—”

  The man tightened his grip on her wrist, guiding her hand down to his stomach. Teresa’s breath hitched as she moved her hands to his chest, then up his shoulders, pressing his wrists to the wall. Her own reflection stared back at her from the mirror behind him—mocking, taunting.

  “You can’t do this, Teresa. What will people think of you?”

  “But the money… I just can’t say no.”

  Her smile in the mirror was a lie. A weary, hollow thing that any man or woman could see through. A smile that had lost all meaning. And yet, she went through the motions, feeling herself slip away as the night stretched on.

  When she came to, she was back in the dim, musty backrooms of her job. The club doubled as a hotel—if it could even be called that.

  The sheets clung to her skin, damp and reeking. She peeled them off, and with them, a sugary crust that had dried against her body. She winced as she pulled at it, the sting sharper than the dull ache between her legs. The mattress beneath her was soaked with urine, the acrid stench curling in her nose, mixing with the stale perfume and sweat clinging to her pores.

  This was normal now.

  Teresa had never stood a chance—not in these streets, not in this city. At twenty-one, she was already worn down, trapped in a place that had swallowed her whole. New Orleans had its charm, but in the shadows, beneath the music and neon lights, it hid the kind of rot that no one talked about. Prostitution was illegal, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t thriving.

  And she was stuck in the thick of it.

  Tired. Alone.

  The smell was too much. The filth. She needed to wash it off—at least the parts she could wash off.

  The shower water ran lukewarm, and she scrubbed hard, skin burning beneath her fingertips. The soap lathered thick on her skin, clinging like beer suds, swirling down the drain in murky grey rivulets. But no matter how much she washed, she still felt dirty.

  She always would after nights like this.

  The smell of urine faded. The grime washed away. But the weight of her heart? That remained with her for a long long time.

  Her body shook before she even realized she was crying. At first, it was silent—just ragged breathing, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. Then the sobs came. Her tears were heavy and raw on her face like liquid cement, the lumps hit the ground echoing off the shower walls.

  She slid down, knees curling to her chest, the water still running over her, mixing with her tears. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but by the time she forced herself to stand, her skin was red, her eyes swollen, and her hands were trembling.

  But the day didn’t care.

  And neither did the clock. Time kept clicking onwards and it made her worry even more.

  She cried for what felt like thirty minutes, her sobs lost beneath the steady stream of water. The tears mixed with the droplets running down her skin, indistinguishable from the shower itself.

  Frustration burned in her chest.

  She grabbed the soap bottle and hurled it at the tiled wall. It exploded on impact, thick, creamy liquid splattering in uneven streaks. The sight of the mess made something snap inside her. It was all wrong. Just like everything else.

  She wanted to scream. To cry harder. To tear the world apart.

  Her light brown skin flushed red from the anger, from the exhaustion, from the beating of the water down on her chest. She opened her mouth, panting, but nothing came out, only silent, broken screams. But no more tears came. She was tired of the tears and tired of the world.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  After a while, she forced herself to move. She snatched the towel from the rack, dragging it over her damp skin with more force than necessary, nearly ripping the shower curtain off the rack in the process.

  Then she caught her reflection.

  Her curls hung in heavy, tangled strands, clinging to her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen, her lips trembling. She barely recognized the woman staring back.

  Her gaze dropped to the scissors on the counter.

  She stared at them for a long time, her fingers shaking.

  And then, before she could think too much about it, she grabbed them.

  The first cut was jagged and uneven. Then another. And another. Dark strands fell in clumps around her feet. She kept cutting, erratic and desperately, until only two uneven curls remained, hanging just past her ears.

  It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t pretty. But at least it was her.

  The air outside was muggy and humid, the alleyway dimly lit by the neon glow spilling from the club’s entrance.

  Teresa stood at the threshold, arms wrapped around herself, fighting the nausea crawling up her throat. She barely registered her boss’s dismissal, barely cared that her pay was docked. None of it mattered. She just needed to leave.

  Then she heard her name.

  “Teresa?”

  Ezekiel’s voice rang through the distant hum of the city. He was pacing near the steps, his brown dreads damp with his beading sweat, his brows drawn together in worry.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You weren’t answering your phone, and you never came by the house—” His words slowed as he took in the sight of her. “What happened? Your hair?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  He stepped closer, hesitating before lifting his hand toward her arm. She flinched, barely noticeable on her dark skin, but he saw it. His face grew red with hatred.

  “Teresa,” he tried again, his voice firmer stronger, yet still strong. “Tell me. Please?” But she shook her head.

  “I lost my phone.” She lied, he knew it aswell

  Ezekiel didn’t buy it. His eyes scanned her—the way she held herself, the uneven chop of her curls, the faint redness around her eyes. And then he realized it.

  The three men sitting by the entrance.

  They were laughing, drinking, talking like nothing had happened.

  But Teresa’s body betrayed her. She stiffened just slightly, her gaze flickering toward them and him, she backed away. She was unable to hide the fear, anger and the betrayal in her eyes.

  Ezekiel followed her stare, his blood running hot. He recognized them now. The ones from last night. When he walked here with her and how they just looked at her.

  His hands curled into fists.

  “Stay here,” he muttered, already stepping past her.

  “Ezekiel, don’t—”

  But he was already moving.

  Teresa barely had time to grab for his arm before he tore away from her, closing the distance between him and the three men sitting outside the club. They were laughing, drinking, basking in the neon glow like rats in a gutter. One of them—big, ugly, and smiling—noticed first. He tilted his drink toward Ezekiel like they were old pals.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t the boyfriend.” His smile stretched too wide, gap in his front yellow teeth flashing like a broken picket fence. “You lookin’ for your girl? Hate to break it to you, kid, but we already broke her in.”

  The other two laughed with him. Low mean laughs that made him even more erratic.

  Something inside Ezekiel went burning white. His pulse pounded below his ears. His body knew what it wanted to do before his mind caught up.

  “Say that again.”

  The man grinned, sensing the fire in Ezekiel’s eyes. He leaned forward, setting his beer bottle down with a soft clink.

  “I said—” He paused, let it breathe. “We. Had. Her. First.”

  Ezekiel didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He drove his fist straight into the guy’s mouth, the impact snapping his head sideways. The chair tipped back, and the man hit the ground hard. The laughter died.

  The other two were up in a blink. One of them lunged—Ezekiel ducked, rammed an elbow into his ribs, and sent him crashing into the table. Glass shattered. The third guy grabbed him from behind, but Ezekiel twisted free, shoving him into the wall.

  Then the first man was back on his feet, spitting blood onto the pavement. He reached into his jacket.

  Too late.

  Ezekiel barely registered the flash of silver before pain exploded in his side right below the ribs. It was deep and burning, like someone had poured boiling lead onto his skin.

  “Ezekiel!”

  Teresa’s voice.

  He staggered, the ground tilting beneath him. His hand shot to his side, came away wet and hot. The world tunnel visioned to the pain, the throbbing, the distant shouts of the bouncer barreling in to break it up.

  Teresa was there, grabbing at him, trying to hold him up.

  “Come on,” she whispered, voice cracking.

  Ezekiel clenched his teeth. His body wanted to drop, to give up, but he locked his knees and forced himself upright.

  “Let’s go.”

  He stumbled down the street with her, leaving the club behind. The lights, the laughter, the stink of sweat and alcohol. The men shouting after them. All of it fading.

  His breathing was ragged by the time they made it home. He didn’t think he could climb up the second-story stairs. He could feel the blood soaking into his shirt, the sticky warmth of it dripping down his side. Teresa fumbled with the key, hands shaking.

  “Almost there,” she whispered.

  The second they crossed the threshold, his knees buckled. He crumpled onto the floor, breath coming in sharp gasps.

  A shadow in the doorway.

  His mother.

  She looked at him, at the blood pooling on the linoleum, at Teresa kneeling beside him, trying to stop the bleeding.

  Then she sighed and turned away.

  “He’ll live,” she muttered, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Teresa stared after her, stunned. “Aren’t you going to help him?”

  No response.

  Ezekiel let out a weak, bitter laugh. His fingers dug into Teresa’s wrist, bloody and trembling.

  “Told you.”

  And then everything blurred, the pain pulling him under.

  Teresa pressed her hands to the wound, trying to stop the inevitable, but the truth sat heavy in her gut.

  For the first time in her life, she knew what real helplessness felt like.

  The hospital was too bright. Too sterile. The rhythmic beeping of the machines filled the room. The air felt stale, metallic and artificial. This must be how Ezekiel felt breathing out of those large tubes.

  Teresa sat beside him, fingers curled around his limp hand. He didn’t squeeze back.

  She had prayed. Bargained. Pleaded with gods she didn’t believe in. But Ezekiel lay still, trapped in that fragile space between life and death. Just yesterday, everything had been fine. A normal day. Now this.

  It didn’t feel real.

  It felt like a level in a video game with no clear ending. No true goal. Just suffering.

  His mother sat across the room, arms crossed, staring at the wall. Her skin was darker than Ezekiel’s, her features pained and hollow. She was frail. Not in a delicate way, but in a way that looked starved—like something had been carved out of her a long time ago and had never grown back.

  She blinked. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward her son.

  “There’s no point,” she said.

  Teresa lifted her head. “What?”

  His mother gestured to the machines. “Keeping him like this. I just told you.”

  Teresa’s stomach twisted. “You can’t—”

  “He was never gonna make it long, anyway.” A slow, tired sigh. But her eyes—her eyes weren’t tired. They were empty. Resigned. “Might as well let him go now. He was stabbed in the lung. They can’t pump the blood out fast enough. He’s just like his father. Can’t protect anyone. Not you. Not me. Not his little sister.”

  She turned away, her voice hollow.

  Teresa shot to her feet. “He’s still here! He’s right there! Your done is in front of your face!?!” Her voice cracked. “He fought so hard, and you’re just— just gonna leave him here to rot?”

  His mother turned back to Ezekiel, stroking his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead like it could tether him here. Like he could still feel it.

  His mother watched me. And then, in that same slow, detached voice, she said:

  “Life doesn’t play favorites.”

  Teresa swallowed, her hands shaking.

  His mother continued, “It doesn’t care about any of us. If you gamble, if you play by your own rules, you lose. And when you lose—” she shrugged, “this is what you get.”

  She sat back, folding her hands in her lap.

  “His father was the same way. So big. So strong. And none of it mattered. You know how he died?”

  Teresa didn’t answer.

  “He saved an Afghani child from one of their own IEDs. Threw himself on it. Gave his life for some kid I’ll never know. He could have let that sand bitch drown in the desert with her brothers and sisters. And guess what? You think she ever sent a thank-you? You think she cares? Want to offer the wife of the husband she killed a hug? She doesn’t. She gets to live. And my husband—” her lip curled, “threw his life away for what? Some nameless little whore who will never even remember his name?” She screamed this at me the veins in her face pressing to her skin, bulging.

  She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

  “If you don’t want to be with me that much, then stay gone,” she murmured. “Die and stay gone. Don't ever come back. I'll kill you for a second time.”

  She reached into her coat, pulled something out, and held it toward Teresa.

  A prescription bottle.

  Teresa looked down.

  Clonazepam.

  The label had been torn, but she recognized it. The same pills Ezekiel’s mother had been taking for years. The same ones she had handed to her brother when he couldn’t sleep. The same ones that were tearing this family apart.

  Teresa stared. The world felt tilted, like she had stepped into some slow-moving nightmare.

  She didn’t even notice Ezekiel’s mother rising to her feet. Didn’t notice her reach for the wall, for the cord trailing from the machine.

  Click.

  The plug slid from the socket.

  The beeping flatlined.

  Teresa’s breath caught.

  For a second, there was silence.

  Then—

  “What is WRONG with you!?”

  She lunged, but hands grabbed her. Nurses, doctors, voices rising in the chaos. Someone held her back as she thrashed, as she fought to reach him, to shake him awake, to undo what had just been done.

  But it was too late.

  The machines were off.

  Ezekiel was gone.

  She made it home.

  The night felt heavier than usual, stretching beyond its usual darkness. It was quieter, too—eerily so. No hum of passing cars, no distant laughter or muffled music. The city streets, always alive with the restless energy of late-night wanderers, stood still.

  She stepped out of the car, gripping the door as if steadying herself. The pavement beneath her heels felt colder than it should have.

  The keys jingled in her trembling fingers as she searched for the right one. The lock resisted for a moment before giving way, the door swinging open too fast. She stumbled, catching herself against the frame before sinking to the floor just past the threshold.

  She sat there, breath shaky, hand pressed to her mouth.

  Her legs ached—still sore from the night before. The weight in her chest, the pressure in her skull—it was all too much. For the first time in her life, she could feel her brain aching.

  She forced herself up.

  The bathroom light flickered to life, casting a dull glow over the pale tiles. She walked in, peeling off her dress, her white button-up sliding from her shoulders. Barefoot and stripped down to her underwear, she sat on the edge of the tub.

  Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror.

  The scissors rested on the sink—just like the ones in the hotel room.

  She reached for them, felt the cold metal in her palm, then set them on the tub’s edge.

  The faucet groaned as water poured into the basin. It rose steadily, swirling in lazy patterns, lapping at the porcelain as she slid in.

  The warmth crawled up her skin, past her ribs, past her shoulders.

  She let it rise to her neck.

  And then she turned the water off.

  She sat there, knees drawn to her chest, the water pressing in around her.

  In her palm, the bottle of pills rested, its orange and white label indifferent to its crime of existing.

  She felt the same.

  Empty.

  A container for something meant to be swallowed. Meant to disappear.

  She thought of him.

  Of his mother.

  Of the flatline.

  The sound echoed in her skull, a long, unbroken wail. But that wasn’t the moment he died, was it? He had still been there—breathing, gasping—just for a second. The plug had been pulled, but he had clung to something. His mother hadn’t noticed. The room had erupted into motion, not because he was dead, but because she had given the image that he was.

  Plugs don’t work that way, do they?

  She tilted the bottle in her hand. The pills rattled inside, waiting. She had already downed half a bottle of whiskey, the burn of it lingering in her throat, warming the cold she barely felt anymore.

  Did he deserve it?

  The thought drifted through her mind, weightless.

  Did it matter?

  No. Nothing did. Not in this world.

  Nothing cared beyond him and her. Nothing existed outside of this moment, outside of the people who had loved her—even if none had been close.

  She was beautiful. But she couldn’t see that.

  All she knew was that he was gone. And so was she.

  She tipped the bottle back.

  The last of the pills slid past her lips.

  The empty container slipped from her grasp, landing with a soft splash before sinking beneath the surface.

  Hollow and alone.

  That was all it was now. That was all she was.

  The bottle had a purpose—to hold the pills. And now it was empty. So what was she?

  The thought faded as her hand sank into the water.

  The scissors slipped from her other palm. Her wrist, carved with quiet intent, bled freely into the tub, staining the water in slow, crimson tendrils.

  The cold left her.

  All that remained was a strange, tingling numbness, and the sensation of water creeping up her nose.

  Ezekiel lay motionless.

  Machines hummed around him. A body barely clinging to the flickering electricity of life.

  The little sparks still jumped across the gaps in his brain, firing, searching.

  Waiting.

  He had held on. For her.

  And when she left this earth—

  So did he.