Liar's Lullaby

When I'm confident that he's given up the chase, I take a moment to breathe. I sag against the vandalized walls of an empty lot and gulp for oxygen greedily. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard it hurts.

Breathe, Charlotte. Breathe.

Eventually, my heartrate settles back down and I get my breathing under control.

Then the hunger comes back.

And the dread.

And the fear.

"Fuck," I curse under my breath.

How can I go back there now?

I don't have much to my name, but what little stuff I do have is now locked behind that bastard's cheap, rickety door. Stuff that I'm pretty sure is going to go up in a dumpster fire now that I've pushed Mickey over the edge.

A car drives past with music blaring. I see a blonde teenage boy's head sticking out of the passenger's seat.

I brace myself for the worst-and I'm disappointed to be one hundred percent right.

He mimes a dick-sucking gesture at me. "Wassup, sexy?! Wanna lick my cock tonight?"

The car zooms away before I can answer and leaves me in the darkness.

Just once, I'd like to be proven wrong about men.

Tonight is not that night.

With nowhere else to go, I start the long walk back towards downtown.

I wish that I was wearing something other than this uniform. The skirt is too short and the shirt and vest are too tight.

I might as well be wearing a sign on my back that says, Harass me.

Not that it matters if I was. The men in this part of the city don't need that much of an invitation.

They take that initiative all on their own.

The air outside feels colder than it did before. I shiver and keep walking for a while in a kind of trance.

I'm thinking about everything and nothing at once-Mrs. Hammond and my mother and Mickey. They're all merging together in my delirious brain, until I'm imagining Mama's head with Mrs. Hammond's earrings on top of Mickey's body.

The hallucination is as grotesque as it sounds.

Something pries me back to reality-the smell of cheese.

I grind to a halt as the scent of fresh, gooey mozzarella fills my nostrils. When I pivot, I drink in the welcome sight of a classy-looking Italian restaurant.

It looks authentic and friendly. White tablecloths and red lanterns hanging over the door, bathing everything in a warm, gentle light.

The hand-painted sign out front bears a name: "Il Dolore e Il Piacere."

I'm pretty sure that's Italian, but it might as well be Klingon for all that I can decipher it.

Not that any of that concerns me in the slightest.

The only thing I care about at the moment is getting something substantial into my stomach.

I walk inside, still in a daze. I don't even care that I look like hell warmed over.

The last of my fucks to give just went fluttering away in the wind.

I sink gratefully into a seat at the first table I see.

"What can I get you?" a skinny waiter asks when he appears at my shoulder.

"Spaghetti Bolognese," I say immediately without even bothering to glance at a menu. "And pumpkin ravioli. And a pitcher of water please-I'm thirsty."

He raises his eyebrows with amusement. "Hungry, eh?"

"Starving," I confirm. "So if you could-"

"Ask the chef to cook like the wind?" he offers.

I nod, too tired for words and grateful for a friendly face.

He walks away with a smile, only to return a minute later with a basket full of warm bread rolls and butter.

I actually want to leap to my feet and kiss him full on the mouth.

But I manage to restrain myself.

Just barely.

"Bless you," I sigh gratefully, grabbing a soft bread roll.

It's in my mouth before he's even walked away. I hear him chuckling under his breath, but I'm past the point of caring.

Honestly, this is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth.

By the time my plates of spaghetti and ravioli arrive, I've polished off all the bread rolls, but I'm still hungry.

I eat diligently, keeping my eyes on my food and nothing else. I finish all of both dishes at lightspeed. It takes all of my willpower not to lick the plates clean.

But when I put down my fork, I feel leagues better.

I reach for my bag and start rummaging around in the chaos inside there, hunting for my wallet. This was an expensive indulgence and I'll be regretting it later when I burn through the very last of my cash.

But worth it, I think. An hour ago, I'd have probably sold my body in exchange for a bite of food.

The thing is, though, that it looks like I might have to do that anyway.

Because my fingers are coming up with nothing. Totally empty.

My wallet is gone.

I frown, pull my bag into my lap, and stick my head inside.

Kleenex, hair ties, deodorant...

But no wallet.

I'm starting to get frantic. I shove the plates to the far side of the table and upend my bag, dumping all the contents onto the tablecloth. Tubes of chapstick go bouncing off. Receipts flutter out.

Still no wallet.

A few of the other diners are giving me weird looks as I scavenge through all my crap.

Please be in here. Please be in here. Please be-

"Fuck!"

A few more heads swivel in my direction when I curse, but I don't have the energy to apologize.

It's not here.

It must have fallen out at some point during my mad dash away from Mickey. Which means I've gone from having "not much" to less than that.

All the euphoria of a full belly is gone now.

That familiar, icy dread is back in its place.

The waiter comes back over and sets the check down on my tabletop with a friendly smile. I try to give him one in return, but it feels like my face forgot how to operate. I end up just grimacing at him like a psycho.

"Th-thanks," I mutter, blushing hot and red.

I pick up the check with trembling fingertips.

Forty-six dollars plus tax.

Fuck. Me.

I really have only one option. I hate it with every fiber of my being.

But I don't have a choice.

I glance around. There's a well-dressed couple at the table opposite mine and a bunch of men crowded into a booth across the restaurant.

Only one waiter manning the floor, with a second behind the cash register.

I can do this. I have to do this.

I'll come back another day and pay what I owe.

For now, I just have to move fast.

I wait until the waiter heads back into the kitchen, and then I slide out from behind my table. I keep my head down as I walk fast towards the exit.

The kitchen doors swing open again-too soon, sooner than I expected.

Fuck, fuck, fuck...

"Hey... hey, ma'am... your bill-"

I slam my hands into the front door, my legs already accelerating into sprint mode. The other diners gasp as I burst out onto the sidewalk.

For the second time in as many hours, I'm running from a man.

At least this time I deserve it.

The night is oddly quiet in this neck of the woods. Not many pedestrians, not many cars. Just me and the sound of my own heavy breathing in my ears.