She Flies at Night

(Trigger warning: This story contains an allusion to sexual assault)

The chime of the bell at the café door as it opened blended in with the folk melodies played by the Roma band inside. Despite the humble surroundings and relatively small audience, the air hummed with a vibrant undercurrent, irrevocably connecting all those in attendance.

Alba, petite and wide-eyed, tiptoed around the small circular tables, pouring refills of hot coffee and checking in on the patrons, her braids flapping about with each turn.

Duties fulfilled for the time being, she took a moment to herself in the back. Alba observed the band from her perch, admiring the perfect synchronicity of the players as they transitioned from a convivial to a mournful tune.

Everything reminded her of home. The one she'd left as soon as she'd been “adult” enough to do so. Although in truth, she still felt very much like a child.

Her father used to play the violin beautifully – often, late into the night – and Alba would dance to the melodies on her tip toes to the delight of those around her; particularly, her grandmother, who would tap her foot to the tune from her seat; clapping and encouraging Alba as she spun along.

In fact, when she was little, she used to exclusively walk around on the tip of her toes before she learnt to walk flat-footed like the rest. Alba liked to joke that that's how she knew she was meant to be a ballerina, even though to her mother, she was simply a little princess.

Being paler than most in her family, her mother had fittingly named her Alba – quite literally, white – given she was a woman of few words, and generally liked to get to the point. Alba, with her dark locks, big brown eyes and porcelain skin, was her mother's very own Snow White.

However, unlike in the fabled tale, it was her father who Death had unceremoniously taken. One day there had been music, and then there was none. Suddenly, everything seemed frighteningly still and quiet. Until, one night, it wasn't.

Alba had decided to explore the edges of the forest that surrounded the family farm. In the dark, two glowing eyes set upon her. She stopped and stood stalk still for fear of startling whatever creature may have taken an interest in her.

As she raised her hand up in askance, a large barn owl emerged from a tree, landing on her arm. It cocked its head before giving a quick peck.

“Ow.”

With another turn of its head and flap of its wings, it flew off into the distance, towards the barn door which had been left ajar.

From that night on, the owl set up camp in the barn's rafters, much to the chagrin of the farm-hands and her dear grandmother, who saw the bird as a harbinger of death. However, Alba felt oddly comfortable in its presence. The owl seemed wise; full of wit and pain, and also, somehow, despite its nocturnal nature, all-seeing and protective.

An avid reader from an early age, Alba set to researching the bar owl, and delighted in the knowledge that, much like her father's people, one could find one in most any part of the world. On nights when she could not fall asleep, she sketched its heart-shaped face, soft white underbelly and complex brown patterned wings until a sense of calm surrounded her like a warm blanket.

Then the unthinkable had happened. One of the farmhands, a distant cousin, had taken it upon himself to rid the barn of its unwanted guest. Most people when they think of owls, think of hooting or cooing noises, but then most people had never heard the cry of a barn owl.

Alba never forgot the sound; the high-pitched shrieks that'd echoed across the field, both terrifying and sad, and almost human-like – until after one final, distant blast there was only silence once more.

“'ello there, anyone 'ome?”

Alba returned from her brief reverie to the cheeky grin of her co-worker, Keith.

This was her new home, her new reality. She had substituted one East for the next; the small Romanian village surrounded by forest with the behemoth melting pot that was London's East End. The move had been daunting, and the culture shock akin to getting whiplash after an automobile accident, but Alba was finally slowly starting to settle in.

It would all be worth it in the end. Just by being here, her English was improving by leaps and bounds, as were her pirouettes and pliés – Alba had saved a little bit of money to attend a few ballet classes, although the ultimate goal of attending an academy and then joining a repertory was still out of reach.

Serving customers was a dance of its own that she'd grown to enjoy; she gracefully glided across the floor, weaving her way between the tables to serve both regulars and those just passing through. She dreamed of performing in Swan Lake, but for now, this would do.

Keith leaned over conspiratorially. “Listen, I've got a great opportunity. Me old boss is hiring for his new spot. You'd make way more serving there than 'ere.”

More change.

“I don't know...”

Keith pressed on. “This place is dead in the water, innit? Who knows how much longer it can keep going. Things are finally starting to open up again. Listen, I'm leaving... an' who's your favourite 'round 'ere?”

“You,” Alba admitted demurely.

“That's what I thought. Just have a think, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Keith grinned in triumph and rapped his knuckles on the counter.

“One more thing... Got to respect pride for the homeland an' all... an' I'm all about rocking some primary colours, but we probably need to make sure you don't look like a primary school teacher at the next one, love,” Keith intoned with his typical deftness as he sauntered off.

****

The decision had been made before she'd even admitted it to herself. She really could use the money. London was not a cheap city, and despite sharing a flat with numerous equally earnest and ambition hopefuls and taking home leftovers from work, Alba was barely getting by.

Taking the bus or tube even seemed like a luxury, although it often provided free entertainment. After her initial shift at the upscale cocktail bar had ended, she'd taken the night bus home for the first time. Alba nabbed a seat in front at the top of the double-decker. As the bus pulled away, a gaggle of girls drunkenly ran and stumbled alongside; one woman with a glass of wine held high like an Olympic torch, but instead of bright red flames, dark red streaks sloshed out and onto her arm, like tracks of blood. The night bus continued on, careening around town, and as more people hopped off, Alba was left solo up top. She stood and looked ahead with outstretched arms, balancing against the sway of the bus; she felt like she was flying above it all.

****

The crowd her new job attracted was perhaps slightly more refined than the ladies that had missed the bus that night; although the division between money and class grew infinitesimally small with alcohol involved – not to mention a line of coke or two.

Her new co-workers, for the most part, regarded Alba coolly as they felt she hadn't really earned her position at the new – but highly lauded – establishment. There was a certain resentment due to her connection with Keith, who was moving up the ranks quickly, given his pre-existing and growing rapport with the owner. She missed having all her shifts with him, and the playful teasing and in-jokes that would ensue.

One server, Andrea, looked like a fitness model and moved as such through the crowd; arms alternately swinging up and down with dainty sharing plates and trays of cocktails as though she were on an elliptical machine; her ponytail swaying from side-to-side behind her. When Alba would clock in for a shift, she'd barely acknowledge her presence and would look right through her.

She did find a bit of an ally in Colin, a musical theatre major who seemed to know everyone's business and helped Alba navigate her early days at the bar; from the basic do's and don'ts to fashion tips.

Late one evening, she'd confided in him about her dreams of being a professional ballerina. He had nodded along enthusiastically before getting right to the point.

“Hate to break it to you, doll, but all the prima ballerinas shag donors to get to the top – it's a thing,” Colin announced in stage whisper with a casual flick of his wrist, primed pout intact as he flounced off to a table of far-gone bankers.

“It's true, you know.”

Alba looked back, stunned – this was the most Andrea had ever spoken to her.

Andrea proceeded to nod towards a middle aged gentleman that was seated at the bar.

“He's very well connected.”

Alba remained silent. Keith appeared by her side.

“Mr. H? Minted, that one. You'd do well to get to know 'im better.”

Keith playfully clapped her on the shoulder and laughed before continuing to make his rounds.

“He's a real patron of the arts,” Andrea said around a sly grin before similarly making her exit.

Alba looked back towards the bar. The mysterious Mr. H turned and smiled, almost shyly, raising his glass in her direction.

He seemed almost fatherly in nature – blue eyes twinkling to match his suit – but there was something about him that was eating away at Alba's very core; a feeling that she couldn't quite place.

****

Mr. H became quite the regular, and tried to engage Alba in conversation more and more each time he came in – to help her practice her English, he said.

He told her a nice girl like her surely wouldn't work at a place like this for long... perhaps he could help her with some of her career goals? He admired her gumption, after all; coming to a foreign country with no connections to speak of. Perhaps they could discuss things over dinner.

Go, everyone's eyes seemed to implore, but Alba was unsure.

I don't know, her wide eyes screamed back.

In the end, as was typical, Keith had come to his own conclusion.

“We gave you Thursday off, didn't we?”

“Um... yes.”

“Splendid!” Mr. H exclaimed, smacking his hand against the marble bar. “I'll put it in my diary.”

No one asked Alba if she'd put it in hers.

****

Thursday finally arrived, and Alba was ready for the dinner. She had taken particular care with her hair and make-up, and wore a dress that Colin had hand-picked for her. The light and fitted thigh-grazing feathered number she wore indeed looked beautiful, but it somehow felt wrong on her body; as though she hadn't quite grown into it yet, or did not have the certain je ne c'est quoi to pull it off. She felt like a fawn learning to walk in her high, glittery heels.

Alba slowly sipped on her glass of wine. She could not comprehend half of what was being said during the dinner at the steakhouse, but Mr. H seemed very animated, and she hoped for the best.

As they exited the restaurant, a man jeered from across the street, pointing at her dress as his friends laughed along, “Oi, love, ya gonna clean the room after with that?”

****

Suddenly, she'd been transported to Mr. H's monochromatic grey penthouse suite. Alba did not remember how or when she'd got there – all she knew was that she felt cold. His voice seemed distant, although his touch did not – clammy and unwelcome as it was, like a dog pawing a new treat.

Time became abstract and meaningless as a heaviness engulfed her seemingly all at once.

****

The memory of the howl of the barn owl from her childhood blended in with her own until she could not tell where the audio memory and reality began or ended, or if it was indeed her voice that she heard at all, for she felt speechless and anything she could make out sounded foreign to her.

Alba had wanted to be a swan, but ultimately she was just a common barn owl, fruitlessly shrieking into the night. Her red-rimmed brown eyes widened and flashed crimson in the glow of the light from the window, and her vantage point shifted as she flew above the scene, but not very far – birds trapped in cages can only move so much.

****

Gypsy whore echoed around inside both her head and the bedroom chamber. Alba felt that all the dirty words and deeds would never wash away despite how hard she scrubbed herself in the shower.

She left the flat some time later, stiff and unsteady, her coat pulled tightly around her as she clung on to it as though it were a life jacket, passing bus stop after bus stop as she made her way home.

There was once a time she thought that she could fly; fly across a field on her tiptoes, across a cafe on her flats, across a bar on her heels, across a stage on her pointes, across London on the top deck of a night bus... even across the world in her imagination, if not on an actual plane... one day.

Now, more than ever, her feet were firmly planted on the ground.