Break Open

1

A/N; it's been too long. I'll keep this note short! This story will be 20 pages long if I can help it. please enjoy :)

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9/9/09

tomorrow is my first day. the journal was a gift from kirstin, i guess i should be grateful i'm not on the street anymore. I don't really like journaling but i was told that it's necessary for the kind of work i'm going to be doing. kind of ironic.. what i'm doing, considering. but it may be a bit early to open the vault. it's only the first page, after all.. how the hell do you end a journal entry

Mitch dropped the thin black pen and let go of the corners of his journal, letting it close on its own with a soft thud. He huffed and dropped his shoulders, not even knowing they were tense. The booming bass from downstairs vibrated the chair he was sitting in. With his back hunched forward and arms wrapped around his sides, Mitch sat zoned out in front of the dimly lit vanity, one buzzing bulb flickering every now and then. The green hue of the light made him look almost sickly. His eyes, glossed, stared back at his own reflection as he let his thoughts roam the tunnels of his mind.

It's okay to be nervous. You'll be great. You don't really have a choice. Wyatt said if you fuck up, you're out. So just don't fuck up. It's simple. It is simple. Just don't fuck this up for yourself. You don't have a choice.

Mitch rapidly blinked at himself in the dingy mirror as though the racing thoughts weren't his own. The door suddenly burst open, the loose doorknob threatening to fall out of its screws and onto the chalky concrete floor. Mitch practically leaped out of his chair at the sound.

"Mitchell! Baby, look at you- Wait, why aren't you dressed? Aren't you going on tonight?" A tall brunette woman clopped her way into the room, her chunky heels achingly loud to Mitch's ears. She makes her way to the vanity that Mitch is standing in front of.

A smaller and more quiet blonde woman follows behind her holding a large black trash-bag, looking impatient and exhausted. "Grace. It's tomorrow. I've told you about five times now, so please don't make me repeat myself."

Grace sighs dramatically as she shoos Mitch from in front of the vanity and plops down on the creaking chair to begin disrobing herself, starting with her golden earrings. "Wyatt really favors you, you know that? When I got here, I had two weeks of training and got thrown on that stage without a second thought. But you?" Mitch, standing behind her, meets her squinted brown eyes in the mirror.

"You get six months! God, what I would have given to have six months before I started this shitty job." Grace begins to pull off her extravagant hair pieces and body jewelry. Mitch thinks that she talks like she's secretly being recorded all the time. Calculated. Intentional.

"I.. didn't ask for his generosity. I think it was just-"

"It's because he was a bum, Grace. We had homes. We were just shit at being adults so Wyatt picked us up." The woman's voice echoed across the dressing room from where she was practically ripping the fishnets off her thighs. Mitch grimaces at the reminder of his homelessness, and then at the fact that dancing was currently the only way he could stay off the streets. "Thanks, Kirstin."

Kirstin falls down into the peeling black leather couch in the corner, head falling to the back of the couch. "I don't really need the sarcasm Mitchell. I'm just callin' it how I see it." Kirstin lifts her head and scoots herself back, cringing at the feeling of the couch sticking to her arms that were damp with sweat.

"I know, but please stop reminding me of the situation I'm in. The reality I'm creating in my head doesn't appreciate it." Mitch makes his way to the couch and drops next to Kirstin. Her response is a knowing snort and the shake of her head, "I get it. I really do. How are you feeling about performing tomorrow?"

Mitch shivers and hugs himself further into the couch, "Terrified. I keep telling myself that I can't fuck up. Is this how you guys feel before you go on?"

Grace interrupts the conversation with a hearty laugh, "Babe, terrified isn't in my vocabulary," She pauses with a wet makeup wipe in her hand and twists to face the pair sitting on the couch. "I go on that stage and I do what I need to do. I mean, I find my groove and for a short period of time I own the crowd. The money is just a bonus, of course." Grace winks and faces the mirror, continuing to scrub at her caked face.

Kirstin lightly jabs Mitch with her elbow, "Yeah. Just think about it this way, people come here to see and experience sex. So, just be the sex." Mitch's eyebrows furrow at the statement, trying to gauge if that made him feel better or worse.

"I don't think I want to be the sex, but I guess I see your point. I just don't want to embarrass myself, man." Exasperated, Mitch sighs and flails his limbs, one arm ending across Kirstin's.

"I get you kid, but I've been doing this for so long. I don't think I can really relate to your nervousness anymore. Just get on the stage, be sexy, and bathe in the money that you make."

Grace, nearly finished with removing her stage makeup, pitches in, "God, you sound like Wyatt. Don't infect yourself with his bad practices, Mitchell. Just try to enjoy yourself up there. It's shitty, but you don't really have a choice."

The room grew silent as those simple words knocked themselves around the walls of Mitch's otherwise empty head until he could feel a headache forming.

You don't really have a choice.