Fatale

Prologue

Four Years Earlier

The lights flashed red and blue, melding together at times to make a violent purple flash that pierced my tear stained eyes. The bruise on my cheek was still fresh, and the cold salt tears seemed to comfort my skin as I looked at the white sheet on the ground, the rotund lump of what was...my father. 

If he could call himself that. 

I sat on the stoop of our building, tourists and neighbors peeking out from around the yellow tape to catch a glimpse of my misery. I don't meet their eyes as a female officer walks up to me, crouching. 

"Hi, sweetie." She cooed, and I could smell the cigarettes on her breath. "I need to ask you a few questions." 

I nod, numbly. I pull the starchy blanket further around my shoulders, pushing ratty strands of hair out of my face. 

She waits expectantly. 

"They came in all of a sudden, and they were screaming, and he told me to go into my room and stay there. I didn't want to, it was too scary." I start to mumble at her, tears hitting the corners of my mouth as they sag downward. 

She nods. 

"And that's when they assaulted you?" She asks. 

I stare at her, confused. 

"No, these are from yesterday." I say, cooly. I point a covered finger over to the lump on the ground. "These are from him." 

She pauses, looking at the lump on the ground, at my hand, and back to my face. Her face fills with the pity I loath to see. 

"Then what happened?" She continues, the sadness still stuck in her throat. 

"The tall one pulled out a gun, and.." I trail off, my eyes glued to the red stain that starts to pool on the white sheet, and I fight the urge to smile. 

He's gone. 

I'm free now. 

I look up from his body, and my eyes lock on a figure across the street. He's half hidden in the shadows of the alley, but I can see his face, his dark hair. He nods at me. And the blood stains on his white shirt still show as he turns away. 

It's the stranger that set me free. 

Three Years Earlier

I step out of the police station, the officer at my side gripping my arm and shaking his head. I know his face all too well, having seen him at least once a month for the past year. 

"You're a fucking lucky kid." He grumbles, releasing the handcuffs from my wrists. 

I shake my wrists off. 

"Well maybe if my foster father wasn't such a dick, I wouldn't have to fight back." 

He sighs, stashing the handcuffs back in his pocket. 

"Stay out of trouble, kid." He turns back into the station, leaving me on the sidewalk alone. He's not going to escort me back to the home. He's not going to take me anyway. I'm alone again. 

I'm slumped against the side of the road, my back against the brick wall of the market, waiting for someone to come run me over, or even just give me a sandwich. I've been on the streets for six months, and I've got to say, it's not as glamorous as they make it out to be. 

That's when I see her. She's dressed in a fur coat, dark glasses. Stereotypical madame. You'll see them on the streets from time to time, walking alongside pimps or poor skimpy girls. 

But this one's a bit different. The fur of her coat isn't matted down, or curling from the heat. Her heels aren't scratched, but polished. I cock my head to the side, examining her further. 

And that's when she turns to me, lowering her glasses slightly, appraising me. 

She walks closer, and leans down in front of me. 

"What's your name?" She asks, quizzically, as if she's actually interested. 

"Sorry, ma'am, I'm not a whore." I gripe, turning my head. 

She smiles, and I frown. 

"Neither am I." She admits, and stands up, holding her hand out to me. I stare at it, and back to her. For some reason, I take it, allowing her to help me up. 

She looks me up and down, and smiles, almost kindly. 

Her hair is long and curled, and looks to be naturally auburn. She is the pinnacle of sophistication, standing on the side of the street with a homeless kid.

"You need something to eat. There's a great cafe just around the corner, come with me, dear."

She grabs my hand in her's, her red nails scratching my hand slightly, but not roughly. And for some reason, I follow, if only for a piece of toast. 

She stares at me comically as I scarf down the panini in front of me, lettuce hanging from the side of my face. The "cafe" is more of a restaurant, with white shirted waiters walking around with stiff noses. You wouldn't believe the looks on their faces when they saw me. 

"What's your name?" She asks when I've paused for breath. 

I stare at her, and wipe my face with my napkin. 

"Charlotte." I whisper, looking down at the table. Embarrassment creeps up to my cheeks. Why am I here?

"Charlotte." She repeats, and smiles again. "And how old are you, Charlotte?"

Here we go. 

"I'm not going to become a hooker, lady. Thanks for the food." I begin to stand up when she places her hand over mine. 

"I admire that, and that's not what I'm offering you. I was like you, Charlotte. Alone, hungry, angry at the world." 

I settle back into the seat, raising an eyebrow at her. 

"Then what?"  I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. 

"I'm what you would call, an informant." 

"Like a rat?" I scoff, brushing my dark hair away from my eyes. 

"No," She grins. "Much more fun than that. You see, wealthy men love to talk when they've got a pretty girl in front of them, and that makes us pretty girls very valuable to the right people." 

I frown. 

"I don't get it."

"I didn't at first either." She admits, taking a sip of her mimosa. "But I believe that you deserve more than you got, Charlotte. Much more. Like I did. And I got the money I needed, all while sticking it to the fat pigs who have far too much of it." 

"What would I have to do?" I ask, relenting. 

She looks at me, and a devilish gleam hits her eye. 

"Pay attention, and I'll make sure you have all the money you ever fucking dreamed of."

And how could I say no to that?

Hi guys! I decided to start this new story Fatale, after a dream I had!