Page 2 of Masked Mayhem

Whitney

I Don't Mind: Usher

Once,eachdaybeganwith the joyous symphony of bird songs and sunlit mornings that greeted me as I opened my eyes. Now, the jarring screech of a nearby train and the relentless clamor from my neighbors fracture that peace. Sleep, once a refuge softened by the gentle hoots of owls and the distant lull of ocean waves, has transformed into a cacophony—a constant echo of gunshots, shouting, and the blaring horns of drivers racing toward nowhere.

A profound sadness has unfurled over me, replacing the bright promise of sunny days with a persistent downpour that mirrors the tears I’ve shed and continue to shed. I find myself convinced that I somehow deserve this misery—this self-imposed torment. Day after day, I circle the “what ifs,” agonizing over the life that might have been mine if I hadn’t lost my baby, if I hadn’t endured that brutal beating. At times, I wonder what life would have held if I had never crossed paths with Dustin.

But the truth crashes in like a violent slap, much like the brutality of Dustin’s hands. On the night he learned of my pregnancy—assuming the child wasn’t his—he inflicted such savage violence upon me that I miscarried and needed emergency surgery. Even a year later, the details of that night remain obscured, my memories fractured by the trauma of his assault. He shattered my ribs and collarbone and broke my shoulder, wrists, and leg—but worst of all, he crushed my heart. I was a total fucking wreck. Despite Dustin’s claims that I had merely fallen down the stairs, the police saw through his lies the moment they uncovered my injuries, thank goodness, and placed him behind bars where he belonged.

My hospital stay stretched on for months. I lost not only my baby but also my apartment, my nursing career, friends—everything. Yet a flicker of hope still remained—a chance for a fresh start, a new chapter. However, deep down, I knew that a part of me would always be broken—a void created by the loss of a child I wanted more than anything. It felt as if Dustin couldn't bear to see me smile and was determined to steal every ounce of joy.

Dustin’s prison sentence for attempted murder opened a door for my escape. I fled California for Boston, seeking refuge in a place where he could never find me. After a year of silence, I believed I had succeeded, liberated whether he remained incarcerated or not. The constant fear, the urge to look over my shoulder, has seemingly faded—though I cannot be sure if any of his gang brothers still lurk in the shadows.

“What are you daydreaming about?” asks Boston, my cheerful roommate, her bright smile a stark contrast to my inner turmoil.

I tear my gaze away from the brooding clouds, forcing a smile as I blink back the tears. “Just watching the clouds,” I reply, forcing a lighthearted tone. “Looks like rain.” I gather my long brown hair into a ponytail, attempting to keep it from my face.

“Ugh, and it’s going to suck because we have to work tonight, and we need to leave, like, now,” she whines, gesturing toward the curlers in her newly dyed blonde hair.

“The T-station is literally next door. We’ll use an umbrella,” I assure her, a wry laugh escaping—a laugh born less from amusement and more from the contrast of her preppy confidence.

Despite my reservations, I find myself growing fond of her—sort of. She was the first dancer at the club to take me under her wing, and we've become inseparable since. I never envisioned myself as a stripper; my journey began as a registered nurse. Yet life loves to throw curveballs—this one was mine to navigate.

Our stories are almost mirrors of one another. Like Boston, I grew up in the foster care system, finding solace with other kids placed in the same homes rather than in the arms of a loving family. We both grapple with addiction, domestic violence, and sexual assault, but we refuse to remain victims. Boston now dates her foster brothers—Lux and Donovan—while I haven’t spoken to mine—Raze and Hawk—since before Dustin entered my life. I have no idea if they're still in California or if they’ve pursued the life on the East Coast they often talked about. Not a day passes that I don’t think about them, about how they saved my life in ways they could never know. Wherever they are, I hope they’re happy and doing well. And though I’ll never admit it, I hope they’re thinking of me, too.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Boston chatters on about the latest gossip from the club, her words a meaningless blur against the heavy backdrop of my grief. I nod along, offering the occasional hum or “uh-huh,” my mind wandering far away, retracing the events of the past year, the echoes of Dustin's violence still reverberating in my ears. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump and squealing of the approaching T sound like a relentless heartbeat, a constant reminder of the escape I barely managed. Fighting through a haze, I prepare myself for tonight while Boston continues to ramble on, a flutter of anxious excitement igniting in my stomach as I think about work tonight.

The clatter of the subway doors sliding open snaps me back to reality. Boston grabs my elbow with a firm grip, pulling me toward the train, her enthusiasm insatiable.

“Come on, Whit! We’re going to be late!” She exclaims, her laughter bubbling up like champagne.

I smile back at her, the flicker of joy almost dizzying. Am I really ready for tonight? I think to myself, wrestling with the weight of hesitation that clings to me.

But as I step onto the train, the familiar rush of adrenaline begins to push away the shadows. I glance at Boston, whose effervescence has a way of somehow lightening my burden. Maybe tonight will bring something unexpected, maybe even a glimmer of hope.

The ride is short but tumultuous. The train jerks and jolts every few seconds, sending me into a nostalgic spiral. I picture the days when I roamed the nurse’s station with laughter echoing down the hall, the memory tinged with an ache that feels like a rusted knife scraping my insides. I shake my head slightly, trying to dispel the gloom settling within.

No more looking back. No more living in the shadows.

When we finally arrive at the club, the pulsating bass seeps under my skin, the air thick with energy and anticipation. With every step forward, the heartbeat of the music reverberates through the walls, fiercely competing with the remnants of my fear.

“Get ready to shine,” Boston whispers as she nudges me toward the dressing room.

Inside, the atmosphere crackles with frantic energy as dancers fix their hair, touch up their makeup, and don their shimmering costumes. I sink into the rhythm, blending into the chaos, a part of the pulse. As I pull on my outfit—a glimmering fishnet, black two-piece decorated with sequins—I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I barely recognize the reflection staring back: a woman raw yet forged by flames, with tattoos that covered bruises that have faded to mere reminders of strength rather than indicators of fragility. And as I put my mask on, the final piece of my outfit, I breathe a relieved sigh, feeling safe from the world because nobody knows who I am underneath.

“Showtime!” Boston urges, her voice a rallying cry, beckoning me back from the brink of another dark thought.

I can sense the crowd’s energy beginning to swell, their eager anticipation hanging in the air, thick as fog. A newfound resolve bubbles up within me. We take the stage together, the music igniting a spark as we twirl and sway, commanding the attention of every pair of eyes in the dimly lit room. I breathe in the vibrant lights that cast an otherworldly glow over us, the echo of cheers and whistles forging a symphony of empowerment. Each movement becomes a celebration of survival, a defiance against the scars that threaten to tether me to my past.

As the minutes pass, I let myself become enveloped by the music, shrouded in glitter and gumption. I erase the memories of that night when Dustin shattered me; tonight, I reclaim my body, my spirit, and—most importantly—my right to happiness.

Under the luminescence of the stage lights, I see Boston dancing beside me, her carefree laughter echoing in the air, and I can almost sense my own heart starting to mend, beat by beat. The whispers of “start fresh” swell up from deep within, and for the first time in a long while, I lift my chin and dance as if nothing can touch me. No past, no pain—just movement, just rhythm.

After our set, the applause washes over me like a balm, and the feeling stays even as we step off the stage. I can’t deny the fleeting thrill of victory against the demons that had held me captive for far too long. And from now on, in this space, I’m not just Whitney, a survivor; I'm a woman celebrating life.

“Let’s go grab a drink!” Boston shouts, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

We’re both on a high—the first bump of excitement having sparked a reckless desire to revel in the fleeting night. As we venture to the bar, my heart thrums with possibilities, and I can’t help but look forward, embracing the exhilarating uncertainty of what tomorrow may bring.

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