❝ BLOOMING VIOLETS ❞ (s.j.)

~ 1 ~

MAJOR MAJOR TW for SA ❌⚠️

I navigated my way through the alleyway and climb up the rusting fire escape to our apartment, the way Julian had taught us—this way we'd be safe, no harmful eyes would pry upon us. If they saw, he had warned us, stroking our fuzzy cheeks with a kiss, we would have to go away, out into the vicious world without our Julian to protect us. Without Jule, he told us, it would be back on the boat when the government men searched for our papers and found none. That, we had heard in cautionary tales, was what had happened to Alesya, and, my mother. She'd left me there, to Jules, for my own good. It was best, then, that I kept my presence hidden. I was late already—commuting from Midtown all the way to Williamsburg was time consuming. I had been careless and I had disobeyed. Julian would be upset. 

I've learned not to provoke him if I can avoid it. I paused for a second at the top of the fire escape, willing the metal landing into stillness. The wind whistled, rustling leaves and causing the rats on the street below to scurry. I slide the window open an inch, peeking in. Julian lay on the floor, hand rested on his bloated, hairy belly. Drool escaped his lips, an occasional grunt disrupting the steady stream. His pants hung lower, I noticed, his belt removed and positioned to the side; he had placed his palm over the buckle. The others were certainly in for the night by now, then, the nightly clientele clearly having already had their fun. I thanked my stars that I had been given a different job, only occasionally being subjected to the business when Lena or Mara or Xandra were on their monthly or when Jules wanted it himself; busking and running scams in manhattan could be dangerous and brutal at times, but there were definitely worse tasks—Julian hurt and so did the other men.

Carefully, I placed the rumpled stack of cash on the table, writing my name on a scrap of paper next to it so that he would know i'd completed my tasks. The pen made a slight noise when I set it down, rolling just to the chipped edge of the table and then stopping innocuously as if it had been there the whole time.

I tiptoed to the room I shared with the other girls, crawling to the little corner that I'd claimed as my own little space. Laying down on the cold floor, I clawed around in the darkness for my old blanket. I had had it since forever—before I ended up here (I could vaguely remember cuddling it as a young child in the shelter where my mother and I had lived for awhile), probably before I was born. Although holes were beginning to emerge from the pilled fleece, it was still special and provided sufficient heat to shield me from the cold New England December.

I'm not exactly sure how I got here—all of my memories before I ended up in this place are a complete blur. I barely even remember what my mother looked like. When I picture her all I see is a nose ring and a curly mop of hair, just like mine. All I hear is crying and hushing noises, and her calling for me as her blurry face fades into the distance.

I tossed and turned, listening to the snores of the other women in the room. I was the youngest as far as I could tell. Of course some of the girls had come after me, but they looked to be older. Maybe in their early twenties. Once there was a girl a little younger than me—her name was Jasmine. We had made secret paper dolls and whispered secrets in the dark and bonded over the fact tgat we both had flower names. She was the only other person i'd allowed in my corner, and we would huddle together on cold nights so that the heat of our bodies combined for warmth. Sometimes, if Jules was out, she'd steal away some rubber bands and we would give each other makeovers, me creating elaborate plaits in her straight black hair and her doing the same in my bursting curls. She'd run away a few months ago, though, with one of Jule's friends. They said they were going to California, where things were calmer and warmer and the sun always shined. The night before she left, she'd gifted me a little palm tree keychain to remember her by, which I always tucked into the pocket of my jeans before leaving in the morning. I wished I could see her again; she was my only friend.