Chapter Text
You had been counting and recounting the leftover cash for about an hour or so. No matter how many times you went over it, no matter which way you sorted it or how often you checked under the motel bed to see if any had fallen to the floor, the total remained the same. Way too little.
You had had two jobs, one as a waitress for a pub-type restaurant a half hour walk away, and another as the cashier for the gas station down the street. The gas station job wasn’t too bad, and even though you had to get up early to attend the early morning shifts, the customers were usually as tired as you were. The waitressing job on the other hand was much less enjoyable. The managers usually had you working late into the night, and oftentimes your shift involved dealing with some drunk old man getting too heated in his game of pool. The tips weren’t too bad, but you never had the energy to be as sweet or charismatic as you knew would earn a lot more. Even with both jobs combined, however, you barely have enough to cover what you needed. Each week, you needed groceries, laundry, somewhere to stay (like this two star motel), and whatever extra expenses popped up. At one point, you got caught in between two guys fighting at the bar and, trying to get them to leave each other alone, ended up having to get stitches under your right eye. The gash is still visible. But it didn’t really matter anymore if two jobs could hold you over or not, because you’d been fired from the restaurant. Apparently, they didn’t appreciate your attitude or the fact that you were always just as tired at the beginning of the shift as you were at the end. You didn’t even have the energy to argue, or defend yourself. You just handed them your apron and walked out the way you came.
You’d just moved to this city, it had just looked like all the others to you, and found that you cared for it almost as little as you’d cared for your home town. Almost. At least here, you thought picking up all the stray bills off the bed, here you had some semblance of freedom. It wasn’t all bad. There was a pretty neighborhood you used to walk through on your way to the restaurant. There, the houses were painted all sorts of pretty colors, complimenting the wildflowers growing through cracks in the sidewalks. And there was a beautiful mural painted opposite the gas station you worked depicting one of the city’s most famous heroes in beautiful brilliant hues.
It was a bit of a shock, coming here after being from such a smaller town, seeing the heroes and villains up close. You suspected only people from small towns without a lot of heroes and villains called them that, though. Most people in the cities just use their names, often preferring to refer to villains simply as “criminals” or something similar. If things had been different back home, you might have more respect for heroes, but seeing as things hadn’t been different, you tended towards ambivalence. There were a few names you knew, of heroes and villains, but you didn’t recognize most that had been mentioned around the bar. There was someone, though, who caught your attention. Someone most people only talked about in hushed voices as they crowded together over the pool table, drunk on beer. You tried to get them to clue you in on who they were talking about, but they only ever referred to him as “He” or “It.” He was apparently one of the biggest criminals in the world, controlling an underground empire. According to Mr. Hughes, and a couple of his friends, he even lived pretty close to the city. You took that with a grain of salt, though. Truthfully, you didn’t think anyone actually knew much about him. Anytime you asked a question about him, you’d get ten different answers.
You stretched a bit, listening to the static mumbling on the TV (some mid-tier villain was just apprehended for the second time this month), and divided your cash between your wallet and a pair of socks. You shed your clothes, which needed to be washed two days ago, and stepped into the shower. It was cold water, but it gently brushed the grime from your hair. For a minute, you just watched the water drip down your skin, tracing lines down your arms and legs. It was lonely, you thought, listening to the stream of water as it worked its way down the drain in this little motel. Keeping track of your spending habits only distracted you for so long until the loneliness would begin to creep up your sides. You scrubbed at your skin, too hard, trying to get it to wash away. Eventually, shivering, you climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your hair after using it to dry off.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror coming out, the ghost of who you used to be, hollowed cheeks and empty eyes staring quietly back at you. Your hair was thin and brittle, your fingernails bitten and usually bloody. Even your clothes seemed to fit differently than they used to, although it had only been a few weeks since you’d left. You figured your body had started to drift away from you long before that, though. You turned from the mirror, pulled on a pair of sweats that didn’t smell too bad, and went to sleep.
The dream was the same you usually had, waking you in a pool of sweat. That’s why you always felt tired, you thought, even while you slept you were running from something. You rolled over and closed your eyes again, listening to your pulse begin to slow, drifting off after a while. When you woke, it wasn’t to your alarm but a quiet knock at the door. You sat up groggily and glanced at the clock. You’d only been asleep for a few minutes. When you opened the door, it was the older southern lady from the reception desk, Mrs. Jacks. She had pretty, kind eyes, but the circles under them did not go unnoticed. You’re sure she noticed yours, too.
“Hey sweetheart, I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said, eying your messy half-dried hair. “But well, there was this woman who was lookin’ for some girl and she said,” the woman rubbed her hands together, thick french tips clicking against each other, “well, she seemed awfully mad, and it was just making me a little worried, ‘specially since you asked me to tell you if anyone was askin’ for you.”
You felt your chest tighten a little as she recounted what had happened. You were pretty sure the woman had not been looking for you, but you noticed your palms begin to sweat. You tried to reassure Mrs. Jacks, letting her take your hands in hers, and watched her press glossy lips together when you told her not to worry about you.
After a few minutes, she had headed back to her office, telling you, “Now, honey, I don’t want to get all in your business, but you tell me whenever you need something.” When she had pulled you in for a quick hug, she smelled like vanilla and coconut perfume.
After she left, you began to pace the room. You mentally went over what Mrs. Jacks had told you about the woman to make sure that she really wasn’t looking for you before finally settling on the decision to go somewhere else, somewhere further. You began to pack up your stuff, panicked, throwing shirts and pants in the suitcase on top of sleeves of crackers and travel bottles of shampoo. You stripped the bed down for the housekeeper, hands beginning to tremble, and mopped up the tiny puddles of water by the shower with your still-wet towel. Throwing that in your suitcase as well, you made your way over to the window, peeking out. The only thing staring back at you was the setting sun, shining brightly onto your face. You were being ridiculous, you knew that, but there was still something eating away at the back of your mind. “Farther,” it beckoned, “farther.” You dug around in your suitcase for a while, pulling out your pack of cigarettes. It wasn’t a good habit, you knew that, but this was the only pack you’d bought in three weeks, and they were the only thing that could really calm your nerves. You pulled one out, the last one, and tossed the empty carton in the trash. Just holding it in your hand, the lighter in your other, as you made your way to the door made you feel a little better. You’d just go outside and smoke a while and think things over. Then you’d come back in and figure out, like a reasonable person, where to go.
The air was cool once you were outside, and you gripped at the sleeves of your sweatshirt until you got used to it. You lit the cigarette, taking a long drag on it, and looked out over the parking lot. You were sitting on the curb, watching over the busy streets and buildings ahead. Even though there was a lot of noise: the buzz of a street light flickering in and out, the distant barking of agitated dogs, the hum of traffic, someone a few streets over yelling, there was a sense of peace and quiet. You could always depend on cities whenever you wanted things to be quiet, the sheer mass of everything within them washing over and concealing you.
You dragged on the cigarette for a while more, holding it between loose, weary fingers, watching the sun disappear behind buildings. Long after you’d crushed the butt of the cigarette under your shoe, you sat there, looking out over everything. You criss-crossed your arms on your knees, resting your chin on them. Everything was quiet. A group of teenage boys walked past on the sidewalk, talking in hushed voices. They didn’t seem to notice you, or they didn’t care, and as they approached you could hear pieces of conversation.
“Yeah, I heard she saw his ad on the TV or something right when she’d been thinking about it. My uncle says he can read thoughts.”
“Bull. He can not.”
“Sure can, and she almost ended up killing the hero, too.”
“I heard he can manipulate people. Y’know, like, control them with his mind.”
The voices drifted off into the background of the city, silenced behind the sound of people’s lives converging and diverging. It was quiet again. Too quiet.
You stood from the curb, dusting any dirt or rocks from the seat of your pants. For a moment, you looked out over the parking lot, towards the horizon the sun had disappeared behind. You expected to see some of it still, peeking through buildings, not quite ready to fall asleep. But instead of its gentle glow, there was just darkness. Darkness and silence. You went to bend over and pick up your cigarette butt, but before you could reach out, a piece of paper flittered by and caught itself on the underside of your shoe as you lifted it. A light breeze pulled it against your shoe for a moment more, before it died down and the paper fell limp on the ground.
You secured it with your shoe should another breeze lift it back into the street and picked it up, assuming it to be someone’s trash.
“Black Hat Organization: Hiring for position of Assistant”
Was written in black bold letters at the top. There was a black logo centering the page, a top hat with a ring around it. At the bottom, what you assumed to be the slogan:
"La maldad es nuestro negocio y el negocio va bien."
“Evil is our business and business is good.”
There was also a phone number and an address. You stuffed it in your pocket, hoping Mrs. Jacks wouldn’t mind if you asked to use her phone. Walking through the glass door to the reception desk, you prayed to whoever was listening that the job paid well and was far, far away.