Sarasvati21
06-16-2009, 03:39 AM
One of my first. :) I make no guarantees about its quality.
~*~
She sat, staring down at her shoes. She hated her shoes. The faded, black artificial leather looked up at her mockingly from underneath months of scuff-marks and wear. Their only redeeming value was their color: black, to match both her uniform and her mood. Her large, round eyes, once lit with the brightness of youth’s excitement for the future, had become dull with life’s worries some time ago. Her beauty, enthusiasm, and integrity had always been her greatest assets, but unfortunate circumstances diminished even her most treasured characteristics.
She had begun waitressing in high school to make money for college. Her family was poor, and she was determined to leave her tiny hometown once she graduated from high school. She had hated the restaurant, fearing that she would never be able to leave it. “It’s just temporary,” she kept thinking, “just a means to an end.”
But then her father was diagnosed with cancer, and he had to quit his job at the Small Town Construction Company. She took on more hours at the restaurant, and any hope she may have harboured of being accepted to a decent university diminished with her grade point average.
No matter how long or how hard she worked, it was never enough to keep up with the growing medical bills. Her father’s illness was worsening, and every test, procedure, and treatment had a price. The hospital debt collectors were merciless. She was desperate the day the man in the white designer shirt and khaki pants approached her.
She was cleaning the wobbly tables in the grungy little restaurant, lamenting the loss of her education. She had signed the papers saying she no longer attended her high school that morning. Her disappointment had eaten at the pit of her stomach all day, but she could no longer afford to work only part time, and this was the only way she could manage. She walked by the graveside of her dreams all day, grief washing over her in waves of nausea.
Despite her blinding despair, she still found room within herself to worry. She did not know how she was going to pay her father’s next medical bill. It was due in two weeks, and she knew she was not going to have the money. She had not even been able to cover the electricity bill.
A voice reached through her fog of feeling to tap her on the shoulder. “I have an offer for you.” The words draped themselves around her shoulders, smiling.
Her eyes ran across the stained carpet, glancing at her shoes before she met the amused gaze of the voice’s owner. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you are amenable, I would like to meet with you about a job tonight.” His eyes examined her surreptitiously. His discreet glance took in the desperation and agony of resignation that she tried in vain to hide in her pleading eyes. The shabby restaurant uniform did little to diminish the beauty of her body.
She lifted her chin proudly, her eyes hardening. She examined his well-proportioned face before replying coolly, “I am not that kind of girl, sir.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry; I’m not that kind of man.”
“What kind of work, then?”
He pulled a business card from the breast-pocket of his fine shirt. “Why don’t you give me a call when you get off tonight?”
“Alright.” She did not intend to call.
When she walked through the door of her small house that night, the kitchen light would not come on when she flipped the light switch. She sighed, unsurprised, and peeked around the corner to see her father asleep in his recliner, a candle flickering dismally on the table by his side. She stood, deliberating a moment before pulling the mysterious man’s business card from her pocket. She examined it in the dim light from her father’s candle. There was no name; only a telephone number printed in the centre of the white rectangle. She picked up the landline and dialed.
“Hello?” a deep voice asked.
She recognized it. “What’s the job?” She demanded.
The weeks that followed passed in a flurry of false pretenses and careful evasions. Her first mistake landed her in a little-known clinic. “Nothing life-threatening,” the doctor had said, “though you do have an important decision to make.”
Now, she sat on a cold, metal bench by the pharmacy, mulling over her options. She was in far too deep to walk away unscathed. More than that, though, she enjoyed the robberies. A part of her had even felt pride at the sting of the bullet that tore the outside of her arm. The adrenaline was empowering, and she was good at what she did.
“Next time,” the doctor had said, “you may not be so lucky.”
Her father had passed away a week ago, so what did it matter? She had no other responsibilities--no one and nothing else to live for. Her decision was made.
“Amanda Jane?” the pharmacist called.
She rose stiffly from the bench to collect her pain relievers and antibiotics. Her shoes squawked against the polished linoleum, and she ducked her head self-consciously as she made her way to the counter.
She knew he was watching her.
~*~
She sat, staring down at her shoes. She hated her shoes. The faded, black artificial leather looked up at her mockingly from underneath months of scuff-marks and wear. Their only redeeming value was their color: black, to match both her uniform and her mood. Her large, round eyes, once lit with the brightness of youth’s excitement for the future, had become dull with life’s worries some time ago. Her beauty, enthusiasm, and integrity had always been her greatest assets, but unfortunate circumstances diminished even her most treasured characteristics.
She had begun waitressing in high school to make money for college. Her family was poor, and she was determined to leave her tiny hometown once she graduated from high school. She had hated the restaurant, fearing that she would never be able to leave it. “It’s just temporary,” she kept thinking, “just a means to an end.”
But then her father was diagnosed with cancer, and he had to quit his job at the Small Town Construction Company. She took on more hours at the restaurant, and any hope she may have harboured of being accepted to a decent university diminished with her grade point average.
No matter how long or how hard she worked, it was never enough to keep up with the growing medical bills. Her father’s illness was worsening, and every test, procedure, and treatment had a price. The hospital debt collectors were merciless. She was desperate the day the man in the white designer shirt and khaki pants approached her.
She was cleaning the wobbly tables in the grungy little restaurant, lamenting the loss of her education. She had signed the papers saying she no longer attended her high school that morning. Her disappointment had eaten at the pit of her stomach all day, but she could no longer afford to work only part time, and this was the only way she could manage. She walked by the graveside of her dreams all day, grief washing over her in waves of nausea.
Despite her blinding despair, she still found room within herself to worry. She did not know how she was going to pay her father’s next medical bill. It was due in two weeks, and she knew she was not going to have the money. She had not even been able to cover the electricity bill.
A voice reached through her fog of feeling to tap her on the shoulder. “I have an offer for you.” The words draped themselves around her shoulders, smiling.
Her eyes ran across the stained carpet, glancing at her shoes before she met the amused gaze of the voice’s owner. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you are amenable, I would like to meet with you about a job tonight.” His eyes examined her surreptitiously. His discreet glance took in the desperation and agony of resignation that she tried in vain to hide in her pleading eyes. The shabby restaurant uniform did little to diminish the beauty of her body.
She lifted her chin proudly, her eyes hardening. She examined his well-proportioned face before replying coolly, “I am not that kind of girl, sir.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry; I’m not that kind of man.”
“What kind of work, then?”
He pulled a business card from the breast-pocket of his fine shirt. “Why don’t you give me a call when you get off tonight?”
“Alright.” She did not intend to call.
When she walked through the door of her small house that night, the kitchen light would not come on when she flipped the light switch. She sighed, unsurprised, and peeked around the corner to see her father asleep in his recliner, a candle flickering dismally on the table by his side. She stood, deliberating a moment before pulling the mysterious man’s business card from her pocket. She examined it in the dim light from her father’s candle. There was no name; only a telephone number printed in the centre of the white rectangle. She picked up the landline and dialed.
“Hello?” a deep voice asked.
She recognized it. “What’s the job?” She demanded.
The weeks that followed passed in a flurry of false pretenses and careful evasions. Her first mistake landed her in a little-known clinic. “Nothing life-threatening,” the doctor had said, “though you do have an important decision to make.”
Now, she sat on a cold, metal bench by the pharmacy, mulling over her options. She was in far too deep to walk away unscathed. More than that, though, she enjoyed the robberies. A part of her had even felt pride at the sting of the bullet that tore the outside of her arm. The adrenaline was empowering, and she was good at what she did.
“Next time,” the doctor had said, “you may not be so lucky.”
Her father had passed away a week ago, so what did it matter? She had no other responsibilities--no one and nothing else to live for. Her decision was made.
“Amanda Jane?” the pharmacist called.
She rose stiffly from the bench to collect her pain relievers and antibiotics. Her shoes squawked against the polished linoleum, and she ducked her head self-consciously as she made her way to the counter.
She knew he was watching her.