Young Writers Society

I have always been a shy girl. Growing up, I didn't dress flashy, I didn't wear makeup, and I didn't date. Instead, I spent my free time lost in romance novels, dreaming of one day being swept off my feet by my knight in shining armour. Since my father passed away, it's just been my mom and me. We're as thick as thieves. She's always been the person I can turn to when life gets tough.

I was a promising student. I studied hard, kept my nose clean, and earned a scholarship to the school my mom and I hoped for, which was close to home, so I wouldn't need to move out.

It was a fantastic experience. I made new friends, had thought-provoking discussions, studied fascinating subjects, got a job at the school bar to help with the bills, and gave my mom tons to brag to her friends about. My grades were high, and my spirits were higher.

Bad things come in threes, right? Not everyone believes it, but my life is a testament to the fact that both incredible and horrible things do, in fact, happen in threes.

In the same week, I received the highest grade of all my classmates on an English exam, my mom received a promotion, and the sweetest boy in the world asked me out on a dinner date. Overwhelmed, I lay awake all night, wondering if the past week could possibly be real. I went as far as to pinch myself on the leg, the pain radiating from the skin squeezed between my two fingers making me break into uncontrollable giggles.

This was no dream.

Summer break was more of a lovely daydream than anything my resting mind could conjure. My love and I spent our days walking around the lake by my house and lying in the field beyond the apple orchard and spent our nights watching old movies while chatting and laughing.

It seemed nothing could pop the bubble I floated on. But even the sweetest dream ends with a return to reality, and this one was no different.

That rule of three must find balance, perhaps giving before taking its toll.

A war broke out overseas, and males from eighteen to sixty were needed. While it was optional, my love enlisted to serve our country as he felt was his duty. After two short weeks, he was gone, leaving me only a promise to write and a final kiss.

Around the same time the war began, my mom started feeling weak. At first, she laughed it off, saying she was out of shape, but her condition quickly worsened.

The magical world in the clouds I'd been living in came crashing down the day my love flew away.

After a teary goodbye, I returned home and heard a smash from the kitchen. I rushed toward the sound and found my mom unconscious by the table. A colourful tablecloth was draped over her like a spring sundress, with plates and glasses shattered all around. At the hospital, the doctor said she had had a stroke and wouldn't be able to work anymore. Suddenly, all of our financial responsibilities rested on me.

But like I said, my life is proof of the rule of threes. My love's abrupt departure and my mother's sudden medical emergency wouldn't be enough without a cherry on top.

I quit my extracurricular activities and asked my boss at the bar for more hours. Unfortunately, he informed me selling alcohol on school property was no longer permitted due to the administration's new policy. Apparently, they considered being in the proximity of anything enjoyable too distracting for the students. As a result, the bar shut down.

Now I lie in my bed, mind racing. There are no sweet dreams to float through tonight. My love is across the ocean, my mother can't do much without my help, and we are without income. My mom requires expensive medicine, which will quickly eat away at the little we have. I'm looking for full-time employment, but the economy is getting hit hard because of the war, so it's slim pickings in the classified section.

I lie awake, terrified, not knowing what to do.

...

I didn't get much sleep last night. While I pour myself a cup of coffee as the sun rises, the phone rings. I called every bar in the area yesterday, explaining my situation and describing my previous bar experience. Some let me know their customers are fighting overseas, so business is slow right now. However, a few said they would call me back if something came up.

I answer the phone, and a raspy female voice says, "Hi there. Did you call about a job at our bar yesterday evening?"

"Yes, that was me!" I exclaim.

"That's great. Well, we have a position that needs to be filled. How old are you?"

I guess she needs to ensure I'm of the legal age to serve alcohol. I'm worried my young age will cost me the job, but still, I answer honestly, "I'm nineteen, ma'am, but I've bartended for a year. Call my boss. He'll tell you I always worked hard and never missed a day."

I'm surprised by how her tone perks up. "No, that won't be necessary. My colleague told me of your mother's condition, and I know firsthand how rough those medical bills can be. Based on what I know, you sound like the perfect fit for our team. Would you be able to come by tonight for an interview?"

"Yes, absolutely! Thank you so much. You won't regret this!" I messily jot down the address she gives me, excitement shaking my hands. I hang up and dash upstairs to tell my mom the good news.

She seems to radiate happiness as I pull her into a gentle hug. I feel tears splash against my shoulder as I squeeze her tight. Maybe everything will be alright after all.

...

I look up the address as the street given is one I've never visited. I'm surprised to learn it's in the rough part of town, but I guess that's where alcohol flows most freely. Nevertheless, I'm determined and won't let my worries sway me from helping my mother. She has always been there for me. Now it's my turn to be there for her.

I arrive at the bar and take a moment to observe the building. The old structure is split into two units. On one side is the bar, which has a faded sign reading Sloshers above a weathered wooden door. The second unit appears to be abandoned. Its windows are covered with heavy curtains, and there is no sign over the steel front door. The parking lot is around the back, so I drive there to park my car.

The first thing I notice when turning the corner is a neon sign hanging over the black steel door of the second unit, displaying MASSAGE in bright red letters.

It seems odd to be offering massages here, but maybe a massage feels nice after a couple drinks. Who knows?

I park my car, walk around the building, and enter the bar through the front entrance. I draw stares from the crowd of mostly older men. The woman behind the bar notices me and rushes over to greet me. She's very friendly, ushering me to a lounge in the back.

She informs me they have a lot of customers and need help keeping up with the demand.

I tell her, "I'd love to work here, and I can work as many hours as you need me to. My mother's medical bills are expensive, so every little bit helps."

She pauses when she hears this, then softly says, "You know, I can help you make a lot of money. I'm talking hundreds of dollars a night. If you're willing to be open-minded, I can guarantee you earn the money you need."

A wide smile stretches across my face, and I exclaim, "Yes! Yes! Yes! I'll sweep the floors, wash the dishes, polish the glasses. I'll work mornings and nights, whatever you need! You won't regret hiring me!"

The woman pauses, then in the same soft voice, says, "Well, you won't need to do any of that. Someone with your energy could make a killing next door. I could mentor you and show you how to rake in cash. I have girls making more than five hundred dollars a night. You could pay your mom's bills off in no time and then some. I want to help you. What do you think?"

"Massages? I've never given a massage before, but how hard could it be? If you're willing to teach me, I'll work my butt off."

The woman smiles, grabs my hand, and we walk next door together.

...

I lie in bed, unable to sleep. I'm curled in a ball, covered entirely by a mountain of blankets. This is the only place I'm safe from the world. I worked at the massage parlour for three months and earned enough money to pay my mom's medical bills and then some.

I'd have more, but getting through the daily grind can be challenging, so a colleague taught me a trick of the trade. She said the white powder keeps a smile on your face, and she was right.

I guess all the respectable men went overseas because my clients are dreadful. Many of them smell like they don't wash, and perhaps the filth on their bodies corrupts their minds. What they ask me to do and how they treat me, I'm disgusted with myself, but what can I do? My mom relies on me to continue paying her medical bills, and now I have a habit to fund. I never thought I'd become an addict, but I find myself unable to work without a toot of that wonderful white powder. I tried working without it recently and vomited when I got close to my client. Having to do what I have to do while sober is impossible. I can only please those pigs while I'm high.

But it's all worth it when I see my mom's smiling face. I know she's suspicious about how I'm earning money, but I've told her I tutor classmates and proofread their essays. I guess she's just happy to be alive because she doesn't question it.

…

Again, I'm curled in a ball under my covers, unable to fall asleep. My body is shaking from the amount of powder I've done, but what choice did I have.

We buried my mother today. My despair overwhelms me. It seemed she was doing well, so I was caught entirely off guard when I found an ambulance outside our house late one night. I had gotten used to coming home to her doing God knows what all over the place, enjoying the freedom from her bed.

All at once, I am alone.

…

The war is over, and my love returns. Seeing who I've become shocks him. I've lost considerable weight and shaved my hair, as I enjoy wearing wigs at work now. My substance problem has worsened since my mom passed, consuming my good looks and a significant chunk of my earnings.

I tell him everything I've gone through, and he is supportive. His love makes me want to get clean, and somehow I find the strength to do just that. It isn't easy, but the pain is worth it for him. So, with my head straight and some savings in the bank, I quit my job and begin looking for new employment.

Life is good for a while.

I don't know if there is jealousy or hatred in my love or if the war scarred him beyond repair, but there is a certain distance between us. It wasn't noticeable at first, but it grows and grows until I can't help but question him. He gets offended and storms off, which really shakes me. I stay up all night, sitting by the front window, hoping to see his headlights turn into my driveway, but they never do. Taunting thoughts thrash me, suggesting I've ruined my chance at a happy ending.

That unbearable loneliness returns to torment me.

I have my dealer's number memorized, and in a moment of weakness, I call him.

...

My love returns to find me passed out on the couch, with an empty plastic baggy on the table beside me. I guess he decided to apologize or talk things through, but seeing me high again is too much for him. I wake up to a note next to the baggy: I NEED SOME TIME TO THINK.

It's all too much for me, and I spiral. I burn through what's left of my savings, and after a couple weeks of indulging and still not hearing from my love, I have no choice but to return to my old job.

I begin servicing customers again, which turns out to be more challenging than before. Now that I no longer need to support my mother, it's hard to talk myself into getting into character. Not to mention the guilt of betraying my love stinging my heart with every dirty deed done.

Eventually, he calls me. My love begs for my forgiveness and says the time away from me made him realize how important I am. Overjoyed, I invite him over.

I try to hide my condition with makeup as the effects of the drugs are evident. I hope he will be so happy to see me that he doesn't notice I dolled myself up.

I hear the blare of a car horn and race to my window to see my love with roses in his hand.

I dash towards him with open arms, longing to embrace him, but he takes a startled step back upon seeing me. I was never great with makeup. His shocked expression tells me my condition is still apparent.

Despair chases away any happiness from his adorable face, and he says in a shaky voice, "You're still on that junk, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes. They're so wide, and the shadows around them make it look like you haven't slept in days." He pauses, but when I don't respond, he continues, "I guess that means your back at work then, doing God knows what with God knows who. I thought I was strong enough to let that go and that we could work past it and start a new life. I thought you said you would give that shit up for me."

Pausing, he stares at the ground. Then, at last, he drops the flowers and whispers, "I'm sorry, I can't do this."

I'm frozen. Why don't I say anything? Why don't I run to him, wrap my arms around him, and promise it will never happen again? Why don't I throw myself across the hood of his truck, hold on tight, and never let go. Instead, I pick up the discarded roses and hold them tight against my chest, watching as the last good thing in my life gets into his truck, turns around in my driveway, and slowly disappears.

...

Maybe subconsciously, I chose this path at that moment. Perhaps the drugs were more appealing than a life spent with my love. I don't know. What I do know is I've regretted that moment ever since.

As I age and my looks fade, I start making less money for my services. My customers used to want a little fun with the pretty thing I was; now, they expect me to do far more degrading tasks. Occasionally I refuse at first, sometimes just trying to secure a higher price, but at the end of the day, I do what I'm told.

The drugs force me to do the things that haunt my nightmares and hate myself when sober. The drugs are all I have left.

What choice do I have now? Where else can I earn the money I need to feed my habit?

I despise touching my customers, satisfying their sick urges, and being the object of their depraved fantasies.

Some days I'm sure I'm dead inside.

The drugs are my cage, and the customers administer my torture.

There is no escape.

I am not free.