Page 2 of The Devils Melody
I left that night. No goodbye, no crying. I just packed what little I had at his house and went to my best friend Olive’s apartment. But not before I screenshotted the most recent text thread that had popped up on his phone and set it as his background, so he’d know exactly why I left. He wasn’t worth the conversation. After everythingI had to endure as a child, I sure as fuck wasn't about to let another man disrespect and take advantage of me.
From an early age, I was subjected to abuse that no child should ever have to go through. It wasn't the kind of thing you talked about, not when you’re so young. You just learn how to bury the trauma really deep, and eventually, it becomes a wound that never quite heals.
Somewhere along the way, you stop questioning why the world always feels so fucking heavy all the time. All that fear and silence you’ve been forced to have, the constant sense of unease. You start to think it's normal; how could you not when it's all you know?
And after all that constant abuse, you learn to start bracing yourself for the next blow. That little voice inside your head that’s always whispering the worst things starts to sound right, and nothing ever makes sense anymore. It doesn’t just scar your skin. It carves itself into your mind and soul. I’ve spent way too many years feeling powerless and swallowing down fear, constantly feeling like I’m trapped in silence.
Never again.
“Wren,mijita, are you okay?” Snapping out of my dark line of thoughts, I look over at my coworker, Loretta. Her weathered face is etched in concern, the deep furrows of worry clearly visible in the wrinkles around her eyes.
“Y-yeah, sorry, I’m okay,” I mumble, more to myself than to her, as I struggle to bring myself back to reality. I hate lying to her, but seeing her worried about me hurts worse than reading Richard’s messages. Honestly, seeing his texts doesn't really hurt me anymore. If anything, it just annoys me now. Working on autopilot, I hand the ticket order for table three to the line cook, and move to grab drinks for another.
“Is it that boy again?” she asks in a whisper, following me back behind the bar.
Retta knows all about Richard. She may be as old as my grandma, but damn does she always have the best advice. I tell her everything. No matter how dark or fucked up it is, she never looks at me any differently. She just listens, and somehow, it makes it all feel a little less heavy. It took me a while to tell Retta about my father, but once I did, I knew there wasn’t anything I couldn’t tell her. She even joked about killing him once. I laughed, but she meant it. Lucky for me, that piece of shit has been locked away for years.
I’ve been working atPour Decisionsfor five years now. It wasn’t my first job after moving out, but it was the first one that made me feel like I belonged. I moved out of my mom’s house in Palmdale when I was eighteen, desperately needing to escape the horrors that haunted the place I used to call home. I couldn’t handle the person she was becoming. Watching her throw her life away to drugs after my father was sent to prison was something I never expected to happen. She was supposed to be my lifeline, but instead, I ended up becoming hers.
That’s when Olive and I made the decision to get out together. I was scared, but Olive gave me the push to do what we both knew was best for me. We packed up what little we had and moved to Los Angeles with barely enough money between us to pay the first month's rent. We were lucky to find a tiny one-bedroom apartment above a little Chinese restaurant in Chinatown called Sun Hong Kong. Chen, the owner, was kind enough to give us a break on rent when he saw how desperate we were, and even kinder when he offered to let us help out downstairs. His wife, Mei, had been sick for a while, and he needed the extra hands.
We shared the cramped apartment for the first year, surviving off the leftovers Chen and Mei would leave at our door and boxed wine, clinging to each other through every breakdown. We almost let the dark days win a few times, but we pushed through every obstacle until finally, the two of us were able to afford our own places. Olive moved to a nicer side of town, but I wanted to stay at Sun Hong Kong. It felt like home, and I couldn’t imagine leaving Chen and Mei behind.
Despite all of Chen and Mei’s help, I needed more income to make ends meet. That’s when I found Pour Decisions. I started bartending part time to help cover rent, and soon enough, it turned into something much bigger than a second job. Not long after I started there, Mei’s condition worsened. Chen did everything he could to keep her comfortable, and within months, she passed. Losing her felt like losing a piece of my heart. Olive and I cried together the night it happened, holding each other like we always had.
A few weeks later, Chen handed me a set of keys. They belonged to Mei’s old Honda. “She would’ve wanted you to have it,” he said, his eyes rimmed with fresh, unshed tears. It was the first car I ever owned, and I still drive it to this day.
A year into working atPour Decisions, I started to open up more, letting people into the walls I kept firmly cemented in place. Slowly, the bar became my second home, and the staff transformed into the family I never knew I needed.
Retta was the first friend I made at the bar. After finding out my mom and I aren’t as close as we once were, she's taken on a caregiver role, and I couldn’t be more thankful.She will never truly understand how much she has saved me over the years.
Aside from Retta, the only other person who was ever able to break down my walls was Olive. She’s been my best friend since we were in high school, the one constant in my life through all the bullshit. She knew about my father before anyone else did. Olive has always been more like a sister than a friend, and even though we live on opposite sides of the city now, we still talk almost every day. She’s sunshine, sarcasm, and the loudest bitch you’ll ever meet—but she’s mine, and I’d be lost without her.
“Retta, I promise you I'm good. He just won't stop texting me, but I'll be fine. He has to give up eventually, right?” I let out an awkward laugh but I can tell she isn't buying it.
“Whatever you say,mijita. Don’t let thatpinche pendejoget inside that pretty little head of yours,” she says casually, catching the eyes of some of our regulars as she pours them their shots.
I laugh at the name she calls Richard. She absolutely loathes him, never missing a chance to remind me that I deserve so much better than him. She’s right, I just don’t think I was ready to believe it before.
Retta slides a drink down to a waiting patron’s hand, and I grin and shake my head at how easily she floats behind the bar. She’s been bartending her entire adult life, the bar is all she knows.
I open my mouth to respond, but the sudden roar of applause drowns out my words. The crowd erupts in cheers for the last performer on stage. A smile tugs at my lips from the sound, because I know what’s coming next.
It’s Friday, open mic night; my favorite night of the week.
“Our next performance is someone you all know and love. Please give it up for our girl, Wren!”
The crowd begins to cheer once more as I hand Loretta the tray of drinks I had for my table. She takes it, gives me a wink, and I give her the biggest smile before taking off my apron and running off to the front of the bar.
Music has always been a sort of comfort blanket for me. When I was little, my mom would sing to me, her angelic voice drowning out the fear my father instilled in both of us. It was her way of shielding me from the abuse she endured. She’d have me sing lullabies with her as she rocked me to sleep, and it’s something that has stuck with me all these years later.
As I take in a deep breath and step up to the mic, the familiar buzz of excitement from being on stage in front of a room full of people surrounds me. It’s the kind of high I’ll ride all night.
A chill prickles down my spine as I nervously scan the crowd. For the past few weeks, the feeling of being watched has consumed me. I know there’s a crowd of people with their eyes on the stage, but this has always felt different. I don’t feel scared or uncomfortable. It’s not unsettling, it’s intriguing.
I know it’s not Richard because ever since that night, whenever his eyes are on me, it feels like insects crawling beneath my skin. And if he was here, Joe would take care of him the way he did last time. This feeling is something else entirely. It’s not malicious or filled with disgust. This feels like my whole body is lit up from within. Like whoever is out there watching me wants to keep me safe.
I try to shake the feeling away and swallow down the nerves. Forcing a smile onto my face, I look over the small crowd and study their smiling faces. Some have drinks intheir hands, the others chatting with other patrons. There’s no one out there I don’t recognize, but it’s hard to see with all the lights.Focus Wren.
