desiresjab
09-09-2016, 12:06 AM
Violet sat on the bed. A breeze lifted sheer red curtains for a moment, as they billowed outward and grazed her snowy calf like a whisper. But she barely noticed or heard. Our sunless flower drooped, her head tilted off to nowhere, while her fingers mingled together lightly on her lap, and the breeze lapsed as the curtains sunk in a gliding gossamer fall, soft as a sleeping infant's breath, until they rested vertical in gentle folds again before her second story window.
In her mind she was past the round and round and round. That had come yesterday, when her insides had behaved exactly like a chicken she had seen once with its head cut off, as they lunged in every direction and ran in panicked circles for hours and hours on into the night, with bouts of tears, shaking, sitting still, and then more. In the early morning, she had finally slept a little. Tonight she was supposed to work.
Yesterday made her remember some things about crying hard and long that she had forgotten, how it reduced your breath to a grim pant between seiges, how it tired your face and jaws out, how the brine of your tears began to irritate and puff the skin beneath the eyes and along the cheeks, how your ribcage started to ache from so much clinching against breath.
Now that had passed. The curtain rippled and stirred again, but subsided as she stood up gingerly in time to see a child-sized dust devil pass down First street through the gauzy fabric. Yesterday she had stood up and let her robe fall to the floor, as she tearfully postured in front of the mirror and looked at herself, holding her own breasts, turning to see her derriere, the one that was so special, while she wept and regretted, staring into the eyes of a twenty-two year old girl who once dreamed of becoming a schoolteacher and a mother. But today, two hours after waking, her motions were fewer and more practical. She slipped down the hall to use the water closet, trying to evacuate the past. Yesterday was the day for knowing what a silly airhead you had been, yesterday was the day of understanding that what ached now, and had been aching, was not the result of abrasion from too much endurance. Yesterday was the day to cry because they would put stuff up there, stuff that might boil away Cupid's itch, but would also scald and scour the woman right out of you, whether it worked on the disease or not, the time to cry, because when the doctor cleaned you out afterwards, he would be scooping any dreams of a real life into his muck bucket—that dream life of every saloon girl—and even any thought of a comfortable existence, as what she could expect, he had been less than frank, would be uncomfortable. From the stories of other bargirls she knew of the unrelenting illness from the mercury cure itself. Yesterday had been the time to cry for fever and sterility and nausea and chills and bloody vomit yet to come. Yesterday. He had offered no easier way when she asked. Tomorrow.
Violet slipped back into her room and her shoulders sagged again, as she plopped down on the bed like before, tired. She slumped there for a few minutes, then went to her toilette and sat in front of the mirror, brushed her hair without expression and put on some makeup, changed into a modest outfit with a high, soft, collar, and went back over to the bed and her blank stare.
If not for being roused from reverie by a sudden sound and a stirring of the curtains, she might have sat there forever. She arose, as the curtains wafted and stood outward, almost horizontal, blowing like her own hair behind her. Far beyond the rooftops of Abilene cathouses a gray storm was brewing, thunder strode the distant horizon with a low growl, and down in the street a dust devil just sat there in one spot, spinning wildly, looking up at her, summoning. Well, girl. She tugged a few to times to make sure. Yeah. The dust devil grew larger and louder, until it filled the sky with darkness and she could hear nothing but its roar. Her hair flew upward for an instant, then fell down as she came to a stop, done with Abilene.
In her mind she was past the round and round and round. That had come yesterday, when her insides had behaved exactly like a chicken she had seen once with its head cut off, as they lunged in every direction and ran in panicked circles for hours and hours on into the night, with bouts of tears, shaking, sitting still, and then more. In the early morning, she had finally slept a little. Tonight she was supposed to work.
Yesterday made her remember some things about crying hard and long that she had forgotten, how it reduced your breath to a grim pant between seiges, how it tired your face and jaws out, how the brine of your tears began to irritate and puff the skin beneath the eyes and along the cheeks, how your ribcage started to ache from so much clinching against breath.
Now that had passed. The curtain rippled and stirred again, but subsided as she stood up gingerly in time to see a child-sized dust devil pass down First street through the gauzy fabric. Yesterday she had stood up and let her robe fall to the floor, as she tearfully postured in front of the mirror and looked at herself, holding her own breasts, turning to see her derriere, the one that was so special, while she wept and regretted, staring into the eyes of a twenty-two year old girl who once dreamed of becoming a schoolteacher and a mother. But today, two hours after waking, her motions were fewer and more practical. She slipped down the hall to use the water closet, trying to evacuate the past. Yesterday was the day for knowing what a silly airhead you had been, yesterday was the day of understanding that what ached now, and had been aching, was not the result of abrasion from too much endurance. Yesterday was the day to cry because they would put stuff up there, stuff that might boil away Cupid's itch, but would also scald and scour the woman right out of you, whether it worked on the disease or not, the time to cry, because when the doctor cleaned you out afterwards, he would be scooping any dreams of a real life into his muck bucket—that dream life of every saloon girl—and even any thought of a comfortable existence, as what she could expect, he had been less than frank, would be uncomfortable. From the stories of other bargirls she knew of the unrelenting illness from the mercury cure itself. Yesterday had been the time to cry for fever and sterility and nausea and chills and bloody vomit yet to come. Yesterday. He had offered no easier way when she asked. Tomorrow.
Violet slipped back into her room and her shoulders sagged again, as she plopped down on the bed like before, tired. She slumped there for a few minutes, then went to her toilette and sat in front of the mirror, brushed her hair without expression and put on some makeup, changed into a modest outfit with a high, soft, collar, and went back over to the bed and her blank stare.
If not for being roused from reverie by a sudden sound and a stirring of the curtains, she might have sat there forever. She arose, as the curtains wafted and stood outward, almost horizontal, blowing like her own hair behind her. Far beyond the rooftops of Abilene cathouses a gray storm was brewing, thunder strode the distant horizon with a low growl, and down in the street a dust devil just sat there in one spot, spinning wildly, looking up at her, summoning. Well, girl. She tugged a few to times to make sure. Yeah. The dust devil grew larger and louder, until it filled the sky with darkness and she could hear nothing but its roar. Her hair flew upward for an instant, then fell down as she came to a stop, done with Abilene.