And chapter 2, a little bit less face punching than chapter 1...Enjoy ;)
The lights from the small dance floor flashed repeatedly in her eyes. Through the dusty white light, stood a tall, dark-skinned woman with long black hair. Her expensive deep violet dress reached to the floor, and the gold threads sparkled in each movement. Emeline knew her; they had met just once before. That was enough to make an impression on them both. Her unabashedly thick accent tossed the words of the harsh language around like playthings or streams of honey in Emeline's head.
"Business is going well. Exactly as I told you before. We have had a number of wealthy new patrons."
"That's great," Emeline said meekly, trying not to draw the attention of the patrons around her. "I didn't doubt you." The woman grinned back, square white teeth peeking out against her complexion. The soft ebony skin reached across high cheekbones and a powerful jaw, like artwork or old royalty.
"And that is why I like you," the woman said sweetly. "Have you still not found anything worth your time?" They both knew the answer. She stared on, taking in Emeline's face: dainty lips under a pointed nose, curious, bright green eyes. Long blond curls framed her face. The woman laid a hand softly on her shoulder. "If you worked for me, I would be inclined to tell you to do less—of whatever you do." She ran a long finger down Emeline's bicep. "You have too much muscle to be a high class woman. But, I can't bring myself to find that off-putting." She took Emeline by the hand. "You are too skinny, though, do you eat? Apart from the beer I bought you, have you had anything today?"
"I get by just fine. You know what it's like being, well, new in town." Emeline wouldn't say it, but she wanted desperately to go home--to her real home, unaccessible by train, or boat. Her project was dragging on for months now. Each day seemed to wear her down even more. The woman understood, and saw, all of this. They were the same: foreigners, female foreigners in a very strict, even scary, city.
"When you get bored, you come find me." A thin girl dressed in white tapped the woman on her shoulder.
"Miss Elaine, your special guest is on his way to the shop." Elaine nodded to the girl. "Well, Emeline, I must get going. We have a special shipment coming in."
"At midnight?" she laughed.
"Very special shipment," Elaine winked. "Sir," she snapped to the bartender. "A second beer for the lady here." Emeline tilted the mostly full beer glass upward, and drowned the drink in one go, setting it down as Elaine handed her the next. "And you're not drunk, yet?" Elaine laughed, tracing the lines of Emeline's face, coming to her chin. "I don't know how you do that. That beer is the size of you. You enjoy this one, and find me when you get bored. I don't care how you got to this town; it's refreshing to have someone to talk to." Elaine kissed her on the cheek and turned to follow her assistant. They moved through the door, and out of sight. Emeline's shoulders sunk, sighing. Her wired smile turned immediately to a desperate frown, as she breathed out all the fake happiness and feigned interest she had been bestowing on Elaine, the exotic owner of a wealthy perfumerie. The bartender locked eyes with her.
"Is she your patron or something? I bet if you went home with her, she'd buy you more than just a beer."
"Shut up," Emeline whispered passively. With each breath, her spirit and facade deflated. Exhausted tears were welling up, but she scanned the bar for anyone she might be able to chat up, to tease, to charm into buying her real food, something warm.
"Eat something, would you," the bartender said, tossing a bowl of half eaten fried bits to her. "You're getting less pretty every day." Emeline wanted to snap, but the bartender was always friendly to her. He was the closest thing she had to friend. He would probably give her more food tomorrow and the day after.
Back home, she slipped her legs through the opening of a velvety green dress. A dark color, standing out against the white of her chemise. She laced and tied the dress, alone, sitting on an old chair before a long, distorted mirror. She arrived alone and she did everyone alone. The room was rotting, decrepit, left to expire. A lonely hole in an abandoned building of the old factory district. The clothes were left piled in an old wooden trunk. Empty glass bottles and perfumes were left discarded by the mirror. Emeline was twenty-six and totally cut off from the world. She spoken occasionally with other girls her age, and enjoyed the small-talk. She always surprised them with her intelligence and wit, despite being so cute and small. Most assumed she was an immigrant. When she spoke, you could hear the lilt of someone with another mother tongue. She couldn't produce the guttural sounds of a native. Her words were perfectly chosen and arranged, but her accent left them sounding too soft and rounded. She charmed these random women in salons and bars, and many nearly convinced her to come work at a factory or a store, to study in the university, or, very often, to come meet someone's brother or cousin, who would certainly find her endearing. The moment the conversation became to probing, or the audience to big, she would disappear when their backs were turned. There was no way around it. They were all the same anyway--people were distractions or tools. Except, of course, the man she had met in the train. When all of the other faces faded away, she would remember his, with that smug grin, as though he was the best, and he could have whatever he wanted. His face made her angry.
Her gaze was lost in the mirror. She had so many rude things to say to him. So many ways to torture and embarrass him. In her head, she replayed the events of their single encounter. Him holding her pinned against the door, except, this time, she delivers a fabulous line about his low class, and how he shouldn't be so cocky. She pulls him close seductively, teasing him, before bashing her knee into his stomach. She pins him. He continues to argue with her-- "You like it, don't you?" he goes on and on about how she likes it, and how he is going to dominate her. She readies her hand to punch him, stab him, prod him, shoot him, anything. Her stomach fills with warmth and she can feel the emptiness of her vagina, desperate and hungry, and the man in her visions snarls in her ear as he flips her onto her back. Face-to-face, he pins her hands above her head and plays with her. She tries to whine her body away him. He grabs her face, and tells her he will let her go, if she asks. She can't say the words, even in her own head. She wanted him to take her. She wanted him to find her. Emeline shook herself from her failed fantasy, an almost nauseous, hateful feeling taking over.
The dirty mattress on the floor was covered in books, in many languages, sizes and styles. This was her life, inside and out and she was getting tired. This was the last day Emeline would worry herself with her mission. In the morning, she was going to move on, and find something to live for. She was ready to say goodbye to her life's work and make a life of her own. A life with real friends, work, and a man that isn't an asshole.
In the darkness, she sauntered down the large cement stairs, her heels echoing in the emptiness. Stepping through aging aluminum doors she was in the streets of Berlitz. The bickering of three young men filled the smoky air. To her surprise, she felt excitement. This was the end of her wasted time. She would cast aside her past self and write a new character with a new, fabricated, history. No more daggers hidden in stockings, or satchels of mystery serums and weapons. She disappeared down the stairs to an underground station.
A lamp flickered on the dark platform. Ornate letters spelled out "Oranienburger" in gold against the gray graffitied wall. Emeline's lips pursed as the train before her screeched to a stop. Warmth grew in the depths of her stomach and she willed herself to focus. It had been weeks since her close encounter with the miner in car #4. Once, she was certain he was present, hiding somewhere, watching her, but he never showed. She refused to give the satisfaction of thinking about it. The metal machine groaned as doors opened. Solemn, she depressed the button to Car #4—nothing. It was stuck. One, two, three times she pressed it, but nothing happened.
"Hauptbanhof," the radio voice muttered and Emeline sprinted for the next car, slipping through closing doors. The eyes of elderly and tired workers fell on her, concerned and confused by her panting. Slowly, they turned away and she immediately pulled on the connecting door, opening it, allowing a rush of cold outside air to sweep in. The passengers willfully ignored her rule-breaking, and she slipped through the icy external air, jumping over the empty space and into the next car. Her pale skin was rigid with cold and she hurried to shut the door. Her blood was pumping with adrenaline, and something came over her. The coldness of the metal door, an unforgettable scent in the air, and she could not forget the man that she let put his fingers inside of her. Her head knocked against the door.
"Fuck," she whispered, "fucking calm down." There was too much work to do.
"I like this dress better," a familiar voice said cooly and she whipped herself around. Lounging on the red velvet seats along the wall sat the same man, Viktor. Same dusty blond baby hair tucked under a sooty cap. Same red workers uniform. His face was marked by a short blond beard and, for the first time, Emeline really saw him in his entirety. He smiled an unbearably genuine grin in her direction, and her face went red.
