A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

i. it's a new dawn, it's a new day

If you're on time, you're late.

That's what your father drilled into your head-one of his many rules for life and how it should be lived. As a kid, you hadn't cared much about the endless rules and regulations and life lessons he tried to impart on you, but as an adult, you've found an appreciation for his old words of wisdom. You try to live your life accordingly-be a woman he would've been proud of.

Though, you suppose trying to make him proud is what got you in this situation in the first place.

Regardless, his schedule is burned into your brain, leaving you wide awake and ready to go a full two hours before your first shift at The 141. Nerves and excitement combine into a cocktail of restlessness that has you pacing the length of your motel room. It's a short walk both ways, your feet following the already well-worn path of the dingy, frayed carpet.

When pacing doesn't settle you, you opt to lie down. Flopping back onto the partially stained sheets of your lumpy bed to stare up at the ceiling-its popcorn surface cracked and chipped from a shoddy attempt at repairing the water damage.

This isn't where you expected to end up-stuck in some rundown motel with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You thought you'd get much farther than this.

But with hardly any cash and a car running on empty, rival territory seemed as good a place to stop as any. At the very least, it meant you wouldn't be followed.

If there were any rules your father was lenient on, crossing into 141 territory wasn't one of them; everyone in your family-and anyone who was familiar with them-knew better than to disobey him.

Had he a grave, you might've actually visited it to give your thanks.

A stray mattress spring digs into your lower back-sharp edge scratching through your thin, black shirt and the thick denim of your jacket-pulling you from your wandering thoughts.

Might as well get a head start.

You bounce yourself into an upright position, double-checking the laces of your boots before you stand. The lights flicker when you flip the switch, flashing too bright before shutting off as you step out into crisp autumn air. You look at the door behind you, slotting your keys between your fingers to form a makeshift claw in your fist as you cross the parking lot to your car.

Your car's in as bad shape as the room-bought used, and paid for in cash-but it gets you where you need to go, so you don't complain. You slide into the driver's seat-shutting the door twice because it never closes all the way the first time-and check for your duffle bag in the backseat before putting your key in the ignition. It takes a minute to start, then another to stop rattling, but you have extra time and don't mind the wait.

The drive to the club is uneventful-too early for morning traffic-and you have another hour before you're meant to start, so you take your time on the drive.

You park in the back this time, tucking your duffle bag under the backseat, then double and triple-checking that the doors are locked before making your way to the front of the club.

No one else appears to be inside, but the door's unlocked, and the lights are on. You can see a small, wheeled cart full of cleaning supplies sitting near the stage that you can only guess is for you. If your watch is correct, you have a little under half an hour before you have to start. You could start now-get a jump on what you're sure is to be a busy day-or...

Your father's armchair tales ring in the back of your head.

What was it he had said?

They paint the walls red so you can't see the blood stains and keep the bodies in a morgue hidden behind the walk-in freezer.