Hello, Sweetheart

10:21PM – Monday, March 16th, 2015

Fairy tales hardly ever come true for quiet girls. At least, that’s what my mother used to tell me right before she’d down her second bottle of red and pass out for the night. I always wondered why she had taken me for a quiet girl, because inside, I was screaming.

My mother never took me too seriously. After my 15th birthday, she began spending her days moping around the house, crying about how her last husband left her for his best friend’s daughter. I felt bad, I did.

After a year of broken glass, broken sleep, and broken promises, my mother’s desperation became suffocating. I had to get out. Growing up my mother would say to me, “Katie, you’re going to be great. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.” Those moments didn’t happen often, but when they did I held on to them. Saved them for the times I needed an excuse for my behavior. I loved her at one time, and I’m sure she loved me back. But a few memorable moments and too many years worth of love-struck drunkenness later, the single-mother who had raised me in strength became someone I couldn’t stand to be around.

I had a decent childhood. My mother spent her days working—often 2 or 3 jobs at a time—just to make sure we both had a roof over our head and the latest clothing trend on our backs. When she was home, she would let me read her my favorite book over and over again and fall asleep before tucking me in.

Thanks to my mother, I grew up thinking that the world revolved around pretty women. All I really had to do was put on mascara, pinch my cheeks, and walk out to a world that I could own. After mom’s drug of choice silently took her life, I learned that beauty isn’t what gets you places…it’s what you’re willing to do with it.

From the time I was 5 years old, I wished for greatness. I had dreams to dance, sing, or act and somehow get the one-in-a-million chance to see my name in lights. Overtime, audition by audition, pieces of me slowly broke off and I became the person most people know me as— a desperate 20-something living on cash tips from ass-grabbing hillbillies. I guess you could say I became famous. Sometimes, they would even put my name in lights. Smacked across the florescent bar above a 10 foot pole read, “Trixie Hart: The Girl Next Door.” I got a kick out of that. I danced my way to the top, lifelessly took the stage and let the 80-proof take over. I was inside and outside of my body and I thrilled myself every single night.

A couple nights ago, I had my first one-on-one session with an uptowner looking to “loosen up” and obviously get away from the 4 children and “needy” wife he couldn’t stop talking about. He would go on and on about his family – trying to prove to me (or anyone that was listening) that he had a valid reason for coming in to the Cat Scratch Fever that night. That he somehow “deserved” to be there.

Whatever makes you feel better about yourself, dude.

I spent the paid hour rubbing myself all over his black lined pant suit and tugging his under shirt – making it seem like I wanted him when really, I just wanted that hundred dollar bill I saw in his wallet. I danced the hour away, pausing when he needed a moment to feel guilty and starting again when the guilt ran out and the testosterone kicked back in. He called me “sweetheart” and disgustingly made me feel like his 16 year old daughter. But it was over and we both left happy – I got paid and he got to finish himself off in the bathroom. Win-win.

We closed up for the night around 2:15am and I started the 2 mile walk to my studio apartment. It wasn’t a particularly cold night and I enjoyed the alone time. I put in my headphones and let the world go quiet.

4:03AM – Saturday, March 14th, 2015

I squint as my eyes begin to open to a dark and empty room - nothing but the dirty mattress underneath me. What the hell happened to me? Where am I? I look around as my eyes adjust to the darkness and see that I’m wearing my stage outfit – red and black sparkle bra with tassel panties. It doesn’t feel right. I should be home, shouldn’t I? How much did I drink?

I hear something – it sounds like a man talking and I point my ear up towards what I can only imagine is a stairwell, as if that will help me hear better. I try to open my mouth to scream, but my lips won’t move and my voice is faint, like an underwater squeal. Must be duct tape. Figures.

I wonder why my hands aren’t already working to pull it off and then I feel sharp plastic cutting into my wrists. The all too familiar feeling of zip ties sparks a memory in my mind that passes way too quickly.

I can hear my heartbeat in my head. Is that even possible? Wait, no. My head is throbbing. Ouch. It really hurts now. I need to get the hell out of here.

I look around the room again and find a faded shape that resembles stairs in the corner. As I begin to scoot my way towards them, I hear the basement door open and footsteps on the stairs. A sharp pain rings through my head as I am forced to close my eyes and drift back into darkness.

"Hello, sweetheart."