𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐬

CHAPTER ONE - THE VISION

Minerva

Hell's Hollow was almost overflowing with people, on what I'd usually call a marvelous night. A marvelous, busy night. 

The bar located in the shadier side of the town wasn't too spacious for the people who'd wanna spend their Fridays having some drinks at the end of a mind-numbing week. Then, there were the tourists in need of letting a little more loose than they already had. There wasn't one table empty, no booth left unoccupied, not one free chair left for somebody new. People were crammed in the black-leathered booths, having taken every available seat to complete their groups. It was difficult enough to veer through the mass. I nearly stumbled a few times from not seeing where I was going, I couldn't bring myself to imagine the kind of mess I'd have to clean up once everyone was good and gone.

As I reached the bar, getting behind the counter to prepare more drinks, I tried to keep my muscles from further tensing in the suffocating atmosphere. The air was thick with the pungent smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the resonance of voices cutting more of the air supply. My eyes darted from the glasses I had to fill up to those my sister put out for the clients sitting at the counter. The smell of coffee was as much of a constant, the only way you'd catch the fresh waft and feel a difference was by holding it at your nose. Seeing how clogged up with the diversity my nostrils were, it didn't surprise me I couldn't sniff them.

"Sweetcheeks, bring me another beer, eh?" yelled another customer from somewhere in the crowd.

Christ, as much as I loved a good tip on such a busy night, I was willing to do more than give the guy a little bump on the forehead for calling 'sweetcheeks'. It was the nineteenth time a fucker called me that. I hated it more than I hated being the waitress. My sister was supposed to be the one waitering tonight… but like most busy nights, she pulled out and stuck to her pretty little corner where she could prepare the drinks. If I wasn't aware of the pressure she had behind the counter, I would've been jealous. It was enough I was frustrated at her for backing out.

I refilled, filled the trays, rounded the bar again, returned, and repeated. The second round, I caught my sister as she placed a glass for me to hand over, her eyes lingering on my furrowed brows. It was only natural for a sympathetic smile to curl her full lips.

"It's not long now," she reminded me, glancing at the clock above the alcohol racks.

No, it wasn't long till we had to close. It did feel like a fuckin' eternity, though. And I was blaming her for putting waitering on me.

Again.

Josephine Rowe was a sweet, little angel, who liked to understate the severity of some situations. As well as my fucking patience. I was sure watching the world through rose-tinted glasses was doing some damage to her brain. I wasn't wrong. Her laze-meter was running high as she held conversations with those at the counter, while my people-meter was far too close to out-of-fuel from running around and enduring the slight groping of the crowd. I wasn't far from hitting the next person who called me 'sweetcheeks' with a beer bottle. Cheap beer, I couldn't even risk something expensive to make the act of violence more flashy.

"Stop looking at me like that," she mumbled, eyes shifting around. It must've been visible what I was thinking that she added, "I did nothing wrong, I'm still helping."

"Not how we agreed you would," I grumbled.

"Yeah, well, you wanted a bar."

That was the lowest of the blows and the most famous lately. It was unsettling to hear it so often from my witty sister, but I said nothing about it. I also bit back a snark on how we both had dreamy eyes over the bar, and backed off, heading back to work. There was no point in arguing on a night like tonight, when we'd do nothing but yell in vain and disappoint the clientele.