Page 8 of Thanatos' Craving

One day.

I sat up straighter and grabbed the obnoxious platinum blonde wig that sat on the mannequin's head. My big, dark eyelashesglued evenly, my eyeliner done, my makeup dark and sultry so I don’t look pale with the bright lights on stage.

The wig slid on effortlessly and I grabbed the pins, securing it in place so it wouldn’t fall off. I tugged on it several times, flipping my hair up and down to give it enough bounce.

Big, luscious curls fell around my shoulders and down my back.

The door slammed open once again. I didn’t flinch, too used to the sound.

“Ginger, out,” the male barked at me.

I reached for my soft, woolen shawl, feeling its comforting warmth as I draped it around my shoulders. With deliberate slowness, I leisurely made my way toward the door, my footsteps barely audible against the polished floor. The faint scent of freshly polished wood lingered in the air as I approached, avoiding any eye contact with the vigilant guard stationed nearby.

Once I was halfway out the door, the guard took his enormous hand, lifted my white skirt, cupped my backside, and wrapped his hand around the front of my neck. “You may try not to look fearful, but I can smell it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile on my face. “Of course, Sir,” I said, my voice steady despite the fear that was coursing through my veins. “I know my place.”

He squeezed my neck, his grip tightened. “That’s right, you do. Never forget it.”

I nodded, my breath shallow. I felt his hot breath on my neck and a wave of revulsion washed over me. But I’d learned to hide my disgust, to keep my emotions in check. It’s what kept me alive, kept me working here instead of disappearing.

He released his grip, and I stumbled forward, my heart pounding in my chest. I took a deep breath and composed myselfbefore turning to face him. “Thank you, Sir,” I said, keeping my tone polite but distant.

He sneered at me and waved me off with a dismissive gesture. I walked down the chilly hallway, listening to the clamping of my high platform shoes.

As I grew closer to the music, the stairs leading up to the stage, I took my shawl and hung it on one of the many hooks that held the clothes that were discarded on the stage.

I heard laughing and jeers come from the other side of the curtain. I placed my forehead on the wall, shaking my head. This isn’t good. Amanda was up first and damnit, I’d really hoped she could pull it together.

A whimper and thump on the black-colored carpet that led up to the stage behind an enormous curtain moved. Amanda fell down the five steps that led to the cement floor and the women waiting their turn to go on stage stepped back and gasped.

Amanda, now on her knees, took a heaving breath, her cheeks bright red with embarrassment and her arms covering her chest.

Damnit.

I rushed over to her and kneeled beside her, placing a comforting hand on her back. “Are you okay?” I asked, my voice soft and gentle.

She looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go out there. To show myself—” She uses her palm to wipe away her tears.

I gave her a reassured smile. “It’s okay. It’s your first night. It takes some getting used to. Take a deep breath and try to calm down.”

The guards in the hallway crossed their arms as they approached. One spoke into their radio, and I instantly knew it wasn’t good. If she couldn’t complete the first dance and the customers weren’t happy —

Amanda nodded, took a few deep breaths, and wiped away her tears. I helped her to her feet and gave her a hug. “You can do this,” I whispered in her ear. “I believe in you.”

She rubbed her knees from where she fell. “Thank you,” she said, a small smile on her face.

I took her hand. She wobbled, not used to the platformed shoes. The guards gazed down at me with no emotion. “I’m taking her back. I’ll be back for my turn,” I said.

The guard grunted and grabbed Amanda’s arm. “No. You’re on now. Go settle the crowd.” They ripped Amanda away from me. Amanda cried and reached for me.

She reached for me.

Never in my years of dancing had someone reached for me. This place was every woman for themselves. Few women thanked me for my help, few women asked for it either.

It was best not to create relationships; people come and go. No matter how hard I tried to relate with the others, no one seemed to care.

I couldn’t blame them; we were all trying to survive.

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