Moodlist
Cold Air - The Hics
On My Shoulders - Sabrina Claudio
Cold Little Heart - Michael Kiwanuka
King of Sorrow - Sade
With my eyes cast on the ground, I caught brief glimpses of my plain black stilettos, as I took brisk strides forward. My head was tipped forward slightly, not enough to seem shy or scared but otherwise allowing me to avoid eye contact with other pedestrians.
This spring had not managed to expel the cold from the city yet and the tips of my ears, nose and fingers were paying the price. My deeply textured hair had been parted in the middle, gelled down and secured into a tight bun at the nape of neck, a choice I was regretting as it left my head exposed to the elements.
Lifting my gaze, I realised I had almost reached my destination, and quickly cleared my mind of weather related complaints. The purpose of my trip to the nondescript building in the middle of the city reappeared at the forefront of my thoughts and my face formed an almost imperceptible frown, reflecting my change in mood. The pace of my steps slowed, as I mulled over the potential outcomes of today's meeting.
You're doing this for Nesto, remember that.
The thought of my younger brother caused my heart to clench. Although his actions were not the reason for this meeting, I couldn't help but feel saddened that he was the recipient of the "message" that brought me here.
I continued walking, completing the lengthy distance between the bus stop I had alighted from and the building. It was clearly a unit intended for commercial use, the floor to ceiling glass panes forming part of the walls revealing a sleek and modern lobby. The building was by no means tall enough to be a skyscraper, but the top floor was not within my line of vision when I tipped my head back and looked up.
Looks legit. A place of business, not too extravagant to draw attention, yet not too run down to raise brows.
As my chin returned to a position parallel with the ground, I took in the reflection of my stationary body in one of the windows. My ensemble consisted of a black skirt suit set, a white shirt and a black overcoat.
With these clothes being the only formal clothing I had access to, I was left with little choice on my outfit. I had done my best to "tailor" the individual pieces my mother gave to me when I asked for them. I don't possess a great affinity for altering clothes, but had picked up enough skills over the years to make sure the skirt didn't gape around my petite waist. The sleeves of the blazer now fell at what I thought was the right place, meaning I didn't look like I was trying to revive Ariana Grande's infamous Sleeves moment.
The one thing I wasn't able to change was the age of the garments. Although not tattered, the clothes looked worn. The black of the blazer and skirt didn't quite match, and though not noticeable to most, I knew it was something the calibre of man I was due to meet would pick up on.
You don't get to this level without attention to detail.
My perpetual inner monologue is why I chose to arrive 30 minutes early. I knew that with the way my mind worked, I needed time to process my surroundings and work through the increasing feelings of nervousness before meeting my fate. I quickly glanced down at the small handbag I had in my right hand, making sure the leather pouch containing my entire life savings was still in my possession.
$10,000. God help me.
A trip to the bank was all it took to get the crumpled bills of mixed denominations I hid all over my bedroom changed into a neat stack of a hundred individual bills. At just shy of an inch in thickness, I was surprised at how light it felt.
Eight years of hard work.
The memory of when the bank teller first handed it over to me was punctuated by disappointment. As if tar had spilled over my psyche, I suddenly felt heavy with the feeling and took a seat on a nearby bench to gather my thoughts. It had been everything I was able to scrape together from a multitude of jobs I've done since I reached the tender age of 14.
It was the bits and pieces I was able to lie to my father about not having, the money I had earned for work I had done when I told him I was in school. It felt like each bill had its own story; a lie that I had to concoct to stop my dad from taking it from me. I had been supporting my household for as long as I can remember, an experience shared by most oldest daughters of working class families.
Chores became muscle memory before I had reached double digits. Helping to care for my at the time newborn brother was second nature. Dealing with my father's temper was intrinsic, especially on the occasions he had beat my mother to the point of unconsciousness. As soon as my father felt I was ready to work, I became a source of income as well. My lips parted to release a sigh, and as the air closest to them became visible for a second. I imagined it was discontent, from deep within my heart, curling as it made contact with the frigid air, before vanishing.
Growing up with a man as volatile as my father had made me incredibly adept at expecting the unexpected. Nothing shocked me anymore. I quickly learned to plan for all conceivable outcomes; to cast my eyes as far as I could and take stock of the lay of the land. I swallowed the small amount of saliva that had gathered in my mouth as my thoughts circled the drain, arriving over and over at the same conclusion.
All of the optimism I could muster was not enough to dissuade me that once I left the room my host currently occupied, only two of the myriad of outcomes I had dreamt up in the last few days would be my new reality. And the thing was; I wasn't scared. I wasn't exactly thrilled either, but my presence here meant my willingness had come along way since I first considered it a week ago. It quickly became clear to me that it wasn't just an option to consider, it was an ultimatum. The consequences of not accepting the offer I was almost certain I would be made was not one I could accept.
Change the things you can't accept and accept the things you can't change.
Some may think I'm leaping to conclusions like an Olympian long jumper. Although my opponent's reputation preceded him by a mile, he wasn't not known to have done anything like what I'm anticipating. He might even consider any of the counter offers I planned to bring to the table.
I was a quick study after all, there could be plenty of other ways I could offer my services. A girl with heritage from both sides of the border that spans across the Island of Hispaniola, I was fluent in both Spanish and Haitian Kreyól, making French a language I could have within my grasp in no time. Hard labour is not something I'm unfamiliar with, I would literally wash dishes to solve this issue. I was intelligent and well read. Surely he needed those qualities somewhere within his organisation? I had all of these things going for me, and yet I was convinced: he would only want one of two things from me. Both are prices I was willing to pay. What made me so sure? Experience.
I have never faced a dilemma like this, but I have dealt with men before. Almost every male in my life who had passed the threshold into adulthood had disappointed me in some way. The man next door who told his wife to "mind her business" when she was outside of the door of our apartment with her fist raised, poised to knock, after hearing the unmistakable sounds of violence. My uncles, who I called after more than one particularly bad beating directed and my mother and I, who instead of running down on him without thought, asked me what we had done to illicit such a response. The man who's house I cleaned cash-in-hand who ignored my bruises week after week. The group of men who's eyes lusted after my barely pubescent form when I was a young girl playing with my brother.
Wicked. Selfish. Arrogant. Those where the adjectives I would use to describe the men I had encountered. I scoffed when I thought about the distinction between "boys" and "men" people often tried to make when discussing behaviour unbecoming of "good men". Rather than seeing it for what it was, an evolution of the traits we teach boys to measure their manhood against, they single out those the furthest out on the spectrum as deviants. Men who are also wolves, with an insatiable appetite for carnage. The way I see it, we give all boys a set of tools to open doors. Some chose to use the keys, others a hammer or even a saw. Yet all of them are capable of the same destruction and damage.
The sudden symphony of chaos that assaulted my ears was what brought me earthside after a trip to the recesses of my mind. A car was aggressively honking at another for cutting in front of him, reminding me of my geographical location, on the east coast of the US. My cheap wristwatch informed me that 15 minutes had passed rapidly. I felt as if I hadn't blinked a single time while I was thinking.
I gathered the will to stand up and walk into the building where I'm sure someone is now expecting me. My feet carried me without much active thought and I soon found myself in the lobby, making hushed introductions with the young and perky white woman at the desk. She was indeed expecting me and gave me the necessary directions for me to find my destination.
A green arrow illuminated the panel above the elevator, taunting me with its announcement of my direction of travel. Soon enough, it reached the ground floor and opened to reveal a group of suited men, who were mid conversation . As 3 sets of eyes came into view, their chatter dissipated. Two of the men continued their silent investigation of my person, eyes trickling their way down quickly before coming back up, whilst the largest man in the back seemed wholly disinterested in my presence. They, one by one, disembarked, and resumed their conversation once I was out of earshot. I replaced their humanely presence in the cart and selected the floor I had been told to go to by the blonde.
My view of the lobby became more and more narrow, until it formed a sliver of light and then disappeared. The elevator moved off smoothly, and I spun 180°, facing the mirror at the back of the chamber. I looked at myself, willing my heart to calm from its elevated state. My brown complexion was smooth; youthful. I was lucky I didn't look what I had been through. Upturned almond eyes, a shade shy of black, a slim nose bridge that gives way to a rounded tip. My African heritage was unmistakable. Full lips with a slight Cupid's bow. Cheekbones that I felt gave away how little I ate.
I'm pretty.
That sentiment floated around my head, not evoking any particular emotion. I wasn't necessarily conceited, more so disillusioned with the concept of modesty. It served to make others comfortable, to communicate some form of virtue and acknowledging my beauty was my minuscule way of rebelling against the notion. I'm thankful for it, and painfully aware of the fact that it shaped the way certain people interacted with me. Although I wasn't the beauty standard personified, I possessed a visage that was undeniably beautiful. It made people assume I was a good, trustworthy person, and certainly made some of the men I've worked for more agreeable.
The elevator came to a slow stop, prompting me to return to my original position, just in time to see the doors slide open. As I made my way to his office I schooled my expression, intent on hiding all of the things going on inside from any potential voyeur. I only had one shot at this.
In the world I had stepped into, sob stories, excuses and tears didn't count for anything. Emotion was a currency worth less an Zimbabwean Dollars here. This is the boys club; a place the inner child of grown men get to play out their cops and robbers fantasies. I needed to come across as serious, as having accepted my fate, and willing to do what it takes to find a resolution. We all received the message that had been sent to us via my hospitalised brother. My father was the intended audience, as he was the "defendant" for lack of a better term. The time and date for today's appointment was unambiguous. Yet I'm the one that finds myself here.
A man that only fights women like a man.
I reached the door of the office, that contained the man with my foreseeable future in his hands within its walls. The obligation of religion was something I had shrugged off a long time ago, but I always clung on to the belief that there is a higher being I'm somehow connected to. I muttered a small prayer for my brother's health and safety and sealed the letter with an amen, glancing up as if to send it skyward. My knuckles grazed the door as the clock struck 12pm. An almost baritone voice granted me entry and my hands found the cold metal handle to open the door. The door swung inwards revealing an office similar to the lobby. A modern take on tradition. Cool grey tones and dark furnishings. Not too much furniture outside of a grand desk, some chairs, bookshelves and some lights. It all seemed designed to draw attention back to the man sat behind the desk.
No excuses to avoid eye contact in here.
Expectant eyes took their time to wash over me, as recognition danced across this stranger's face briefly. "Vanessa", he states, and I gave a subtle nod to confirm my identity.
"Come in. Take a seat."
I followed his instruction without hesitation.
We were now face to face, eyes as level as they could be given our height difference. He was handsome man. The thought left my mind as quick as it entered. A mere observation, nothing to set my heart ablaze. He was well dressed, I could see the quality of his garments from where I sat. I could tell he was taller than me but not how much by. He wasn't overtly intimidating. No scar spanning across his eye or brow, no ominous tattoos creeping up the collar of his shirt or peaking out of his sleeve. It was his presence, his aura that did it. He commanded my attention with little to no verbal output, a feat not many could say they achieved. Power seeped from his pores. His posture juxtaposed mine. While I was sat up straight, with my legs crossed and hands folded in my lap, he was more casual. His seat was reclined slightly, presumably for his comfort and his body language was more open. This was his domain, no reason for him contain himself here.
The silence in the room quickly gave way to mundane sounds. The hands of an analogue clock ticking as they told the time. The muffled sound of traffic I left behind upon my entry of this building. The mechanical whirring of the laptop that sat in front of him. I had to break it, to give myself some form of advantage. So I jumped straight in.
"Mr Leone, thank you for meeting with me today. As I'm sure you are aware, I'm here to discuss the debt of $100,000 that my father has incurred."
My words sounded lighter that they usually do, a subconscious change that tended to occur when I spoke to people I don't know. I'm glad it sounded steady though, meaning the slight tremor I was feeling all over my body wasn't strong enough to penetrate my voice.
Although I had spoken out of turn, he seemed pleased I got right to it.
"Very well. So Vanessa, please tell me, how will you be paying today?"
__________________________________________
Woooooooooo
First chapter done! You've met Vanessa, our protagonist. Do we like her? Do we love her? *Doja Cat Voice*
I love her. She's such a cool girl. A staunch pessimist, but who isn't in this economy?
We also got a brief interaction with Mr Leone. You'll meet him in the next chapter.
So, she ain't got it. At least not all of it, so what do you think he thinks will be a fair trade? LMK
Please tell me your thoughts, I love to see it!
Vote. Comment. Share. Do all that shit!
LOVE YOU LONG TIME - DUCHESS 🤍🤍🤍