Chapter 8 Survival Tactics

AMELIA

I woke to sunlight warming my face through the window; at least, I assumed it was sunlight. The warmth felt different from the artificial heat of the room, gentler somehow.

My first real sleep in days had left me disoriented. For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back: Crimson. Marco. The drunk customer who'd kissed me.

The slap.

I sat up slowly, my body aching in places I hadn't known could ache. The too-high heels from last night had done a number on my feet, and sleeping in an unfamiliar bed had left my muscles stiff.

I needed to use the bathroom.

Carefully, I felt my way to the door, counting steps like Mrs Thomas had taught me years ago. Twelve steps from bed to door. I'd need to memorise this room and create a mental map for every obstacle.

The hallway was quiet. Most of the other girls were probably still sleeping—it had been past two in the morning when I'd finally gone to bed, and I doubted the bar closed before three or four.

I made my way down the hall, trailing my hand along the wall. The bathroom was the third door, Nina had said. First two were storage, the third was the bathroom, and the fourth was mine.

One. Two. Three.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The tile floor was cold under my bare feet. I could hear the drip of a faucet somewhere and the hum of old pipes in the walls. The bathroom smelt like cheap soap and mildew.

I took care of what I needed, washed my hands, and splashed water on my face. The mirror above the sink was useless to me, but I could imagine what I looked like—yesterday's makeup probably smudged, hair a mess.

I should go back to my room. Get dressed. Figure out what came next.

I opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway.

My foot caught on something—a leg stuck out deliberately at ankle height.

I went down hard, my hands shooting out to break my fall. Pain exploded through my palms as they hit the wooden floor. My knee cracked against the boards, sending a sharp jolt up my thigh.

Laughter erupted around me. Female voices. At least three of them.

"Oops," Jade's voice dripped with false sweetness. "Didn't see you there."

More laughter from them.

I stayed on the floor, my hands stinging, my knee throbbing. Heat crawled up my neck and into my face.

"What's wrong, Amelia?" Another voice, one I didn't recognise. "Can't handle a little stumble?"

"Maybe she should stick to her room," Jade said. "Wouldn't want her running into anything else."

The laughter grew louder, meaner.

I pushed myself up slowly and carefully. My palms burnt. I could feel wetness on one of them—blood, probably. A splinter or scrape from the old floor.

"Pathetic," someone muttered as I got to my feet.

I stood there, hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to say something. To scream. To break down.

But what would that accomplish? They wanted a reaction. Wanted to see me cry or fight back or run away.

I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

I turned and walked back toward my room, my steps careful and measured. Behind me, the whispers started—I could hear them even if I couldn't make out the words.

Twelve steps. My door. I pushed inside and closed it behind me, leaning against the wood.

Only then did I let the tears come.

I cried for maybe ten minutes.

Silent tears that leaked from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks, dripping off my chin onto my chest. I didn't make a sound—couldn't risk them hearing me through the thin walls.

My hands hurt. My knee hurt. My pride hurt worse than both.

This was my life now. Working in a bar where men paid for private time with girls like me. Living in a building where the other workers hated me for getting a position they wanted. Being tripped and mocked and treated like I was less than human.

All because I was blind and desperate and had nowhere else to go.

I thought about leaving. Just walking out of Crimson and never coming back.

But where would I go?

Back to the streets? Back to sleeping on park benches and begging for jobs that would never come?

At least here I had a room. A door that locked. Food, probably, if I asked Marco about meals.

At least here I wasn't completely alone.

Even if the people around me hated me.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, wincing when it stung against the scrape on my palm.

'You're a survivor,' I told myself again. Mrs Thomas's words. You've survived worse than this.

Except I wasn't sure I had.

But I didn't have a choice. I had to make this work. Had to figure out how to navigate this world I'd stumbled into.

Starting with the most basic problem: I couldn't even make it to the bathroom without someone tripping me.

An idea formed slowly.

I needed my cane. The white cane I'd lost during the gang fight. It had been my constant companion since I was ten years old, an extension of my body that helped me navigate the world.

Without it, I was fumbling. Helpless. Vulnerable to exactly the kind of cruelty Jade and her friends had just shown me.

But I didn't have money for a new cane. I didn't even know where to buy it in this neighbourhood.

Marco, though. Marco had resources. Marco had given me this job, this room.

Maybe Marco could help me with this too.

I stood up, wiped my face one more time, and I opened my door.

Getting downstairs was harder without someone guiding me. I counted steps, felt for the railing, and took my time.

The main bar area was mostly empty. I could hear someone moving around—sweeping, maybe. The smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke was stronger down here.

"Hello?" I called out.

"Bar's closed," a male voice responded. A younger person.

"I'm looking for Marco. Is he here?"

There's a pause from him, and then he says, "Who's asking?"

"Amelia. I work here."

"Oh. The new girl." Something in his tone shifted. "Yeah, he's in his office. Back hallway, last door on the right."

"Thank you."

I made my way carefully across the main floor, using the bar itself as a guide. My hand trailed along the smooth wood until I reached the end, then I turned right into what I hoped was the hallway.

"It's straight back," the young man called out. "Walk about thirty feet more. The door will be open."

I thanked him and kept walking. I walked a few metres, and then I heard some of the girls mocking me again. One of them said, 'I hope she missed her steps and fell.'

I can't help but imagine why people can be so cruel. I never offended anyone. I have just been on my own since I arrived here, but it seems my existence alone in this world is a crime.