Belle

i.

August 21, 1928;

 At least I've learned this much:

Life doesn't have to be

all poetry and roses. Life

can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,

electric bills, dishwashing,

chapped lips, dull stubby pencils

with the erasers chewed off,

cheap radios played too loud,

the rank smell of stale coffee 

yet still glow

with the inner fire of an opal,

still taste like honey.

 - Julie Alger, Lesson 1

I strapped on my red velvet Mary Jane’s, the yellow dress adorning my tenuous figure flowing down to just about mid-thigh.  I took in a long, deep breath before I reached out for my fur coat amongst the rack of wraps, although as I reached I gripped at nothing but air.  Just as I was about to turn around a hand tapped my shoulder, and with a huff I lifted my arms, and the coat sleeves slide right on down.  I shimmed on the rest of the coat.

 “I’ve got’cha, doll,” said Robert as he leaned in to kiss my cheek.  His voice was soft as he spoke, though in no way did it hold any amount of compassion.  His mustache was rough against my skin, making me itch.  Quickly I pulled away.

“Thank you,” I muttered, the words numb in my mouth.  It had almost been like the words were pre-generated, and I was some sort of machine spewing them out every time he was near by.

I turned back in the direction of the oval mirror atop my dresser, and what it reflected I had hardly recognized.  A young girl, early twenties, her blonde hair collected back in a pin-up.  The bags beneath her eyes did no justice for the bright blues of her irises, her pupils mere dots.  Her red lips sat limp beneath her powdered nose and for a second I saw them twitch, the only sign of life about her.  When I blinked, so did she, and when I turned my head, so did she.  She was not a machine; no—nothing about her was a cogs and whistles—but human.  I plastered on a smile.  So did she.

The man behind her was a ghost.  As he moved, his shadows followed, though they appeared to lag as if they were almost afraid of getting too close.

Amongst the abundance of citizens inhabiting the United States, there were many of us that enjoyed a drink or two every now and again.  Though, ironically, New York City would not be as popular as it was then if it weren't for the country existing under the influence of Prohibition.  The United States was and is a disgusting place to live, simply put.  We are constantly consuming—alcohol being served during every meal of the day: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  And thus, as a result of this rabid consumption, speakeasies had been born.  Like a chicken laying an egg, it came suddenly.  And it was as if the egg itself had been made of gold, for everyone wanted a piece of it.  Every man wanted a part of the action.  And within these speakeasies you could find finger food, a new fashion inspiration, and bathtub brewed gin and cocktails.

Oh, what fun it was.

 "Sweetheart, you look lovely as always." Robert spoke with falsity from behind me. To me,, his voice sounded faint, which was odd because I knew he was only a few mere feet away. I turned around and gave him a wide smile, my lips remaining civilly pursed together. "As do you,” I spoke as solemnly curtsied, my one shoe in front of the other.

"We must be going, it's nearly half past eleven. We don't want be late, now do we?" He chuckled as he wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close to his side.

I shook my head and let out a deep breath, for I knew tonight would somehow end up a nightmare. His breath smelled of expensive alcohol, even at our fair distance. I had an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn't decide if it was for worse or for better.