dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose, @ 2017-01-20 11:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, dahlia haight |
[Narrative: Dahlia]
Who: Dahlia
Where: Las Vegas, NV
What: Narrative.
When: Hella backdated, oop. Before the new year.
Warnings: Swears, blood/injury mention.
In retrospect, as she spat red onto someone's shoes, Dahlia figured she had made some mistakes.
Thick hands clamped down on her shoulder. She jabbed an elbow backward, kneejerk reaction, and was rewarded by a soft grunt from behind. But the hands on her instantly multiplied--weren't real kind 'bout it, either--and hauled her back, twisting one arm behind her. The world tilted. Someone was shouting, over the thud of her own heartbeat swimming through her head. She glanced up, face-to-face with her own reflection in a glass wall. Violence pressed into a suit and between two slabs shaped like men stared back, welt like a sunrise blooming 'cross one cheek. A stream of red ran out of her nostrils and the split in her lip, dotting her whites daintily.
Looked real sharp, right? Well, before she went and bled on it. The oxfords were the real splurge, cost more than she made in a month. The suit was off-the-rack, though, the cufflinks sterling instead of sliver--but authentic weren't the fucking point. It was an illusion of wealth. Lowbrow girl, with all her ink and empty pockets, didn't fit in here. The ensemble was a facade, yeah, but she still looked good. Made her feel like money.
These two assholes tugging her by the shoulder weren't helping her look, either. Tiny and Meathead, here--twin 'roid rage stuffed into ill-fitting suits--pushed her past tables where money clustered 'round like a warm fire. The casino was mint. Not for the average tourist. Money here sounded like the soft clatter of chips and the whisper of croupiers raking felt. People spoke hushed and short, and the buy-in was the price of a car. Took all of what remained of her savings just to get her and Red through the fucking front door. This place meant business. No video poker here, man. Real serious.
No wonder these fucks couldn't take a joke. Mistake number one: coming here. Mistake the second: coming to Vegas, period. Shouldn't have taken the ticket in the first fucking place. Easy to displace all the blame for that onto her mysterious benefactor, though, the guy making her responsible for all this money he was throwing around. Forcing her to have a good time. Asshole.
"C'mon, bro," Dahlia slurred in her mess of a mouth. Her head lolled toward the bouncer twisting her arm. She decided this one was Tiny. "S'fuckin' new, this suit. Don't--fuck it up, bro." Tiny ignored her. The bourgeois pretended not to stare. She wriggled, in vain, and raised her voice. Make a damn scene if she wanted to. "Bro. Bro. Juss--c'mon, bro. You don't gotta--look, I woulda spotted you, bro. Coulda swapped tips an'--an' protein powders, yeah? Unless your shit comes wit' the fuckin'--candy mixed in. M'good, bro. Don't need it. Bro, I woulda helped you out, y'know. I never--had no girl complain 'bout my performance--"
Tiny wrenched hard, and she couldn't feel shit through the adrenaline fog, but her fingers started to tingle. "Bro," she taunted. "C'mon. Coulda--nngh--been friends, bro." Good one, right? She snickered, dizzy. Punchline was, she didn't have none. Hah hah. Nobody else laughed.
Whatever. Fucking jealous, all of them. 'Cause they didn't win big enough to get the presidential escort like her. Yeah. Right.
Her and Red? Showed up for business. Been coming here nights they weren't, uh--already preoccupied, slowly building up their winnings between them. Avoided drawing too much attention that way. So, hah, joke's on them now--she was still walking away with their money. Lined that jacket of hers with both Bemberg and Benjamins, thin stacks from the payout counters stuffed into her pockets. No sure thing yet, but pretty certain her half of the winnings were enough to make back her losses over the past couple of years--all of her hoard that she spent on a shitty trailer, bad habits, and bail. Weren't thinking 'bout how much more it could've been, had she just not forfeit all the night's winnings.
Tiny and Meathead steered her through swinging doors, past a kitchen. Dahlia squinted into the fluorescent lights and harsh uniform whites brushing by--sharp contrast to the mood lighting and dark woods on the casino floor. Rich smells meant for rich people hit her senses. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed thick. Bottomless pit like her had no appetite lately. Had this nice, expensive fucking steak the other night, right? Just 'cause she could. And it turned to tasteless rubber in her mouth, 'cause it weren't the thing she was really craving--greasy burgers and fries from the diner, the good one in town.
And that, really, was the million-dollar question: what the fuck was wrong with her? Everything was going right and she still felt like a punch to the mouth. Figuratively. Literally. Whatever.
Look, she knew the burgers back in town weren't special. She could get shitty diner food anywhere. This was Vegas, right, and the one place she always wanted to be: away from fucking Repose. Dahlia wanted so badly to never want to leave. But here she was, hundreds of miles away from the town--and the town was all she could think about. She missed--all this dumb shit. Hotel treadmills sucked. She wanted her running route down by the train tracks, where it was quiet and still. She wanted her noisy bike, even with its perpetual oil leak. She missed Hiro, her dog, and his reassuring presence. Sifu, and knowing she weren't far away. Connie, deeply.
Dahlia glanced downward, guiltily. Knew she was sorta avoiding her. Didn't want to wreck her--only--friend's week or whatever, like fucking Sam had wrecked hers. Sam--a flare of hurt, whatever, fuck her--was wrong. It wasn't that she didn't make mistakes. She did. She knew it, alright? Every fucking day of her life. Difference was, she just learned to live with hers. No amount of sorry ever fixed shit. Sorry never fixed her career, her friendships, her life. There weren't shit else to do. Just move on, 'til she ran out of places to go.
Thought she won, this time. Thought she got everything she wanted--the escape, the money, the distraction. But this--it weren't how it was supposed to work out. Weren't how it was supposed to feel. She still carried this sucking chest wound living behind her ribs, no matter where she went. Followed her from Repose to the Capital and back again. Followed her here, to Vegas, and was gonna follow her out the fucking door.
Tiny released her arm, and hands on her shoulders shoved hard. Dahlia did her stagger of shame down some stairs and into the alley, scuffing new shoes as she did, and only narrowly avoiding falling on her face. "Motherfucker--" she cussed loud, and turned to gesture rude at the bouncers--but the door was already closed. No audience left for her hostile display, aside from a couple workers on smoke breaks hurriedly stubbing out cigarettes.
Did it, anyway. Just shouted and swore at the door for a minute or two 'til she felt nominally better, slamming her fist into the metal with ringing finality. Fuck them. Fuck this. She wanted her fucking money. That dude fucking deserved it, alright? Some sore fucking loser from their table got all up in her cunt as they started walking away. Accused her and Red of cheating. Not that he was wrong, technically. She didn't know what sleight of hand Red had done on those dice, but it worked like fucking magic. But they were meant to keep a low profile, and well. In her defense, he shoved first. Shit rapidly dissolved from there. Security were nearby, but brawls weren't like they were in the movies--they were mean, and dirty, and fast.
Too bad the dude's luck weren't as good on the tables. 'Cause those cheap shots he got in first definitely weren't her fault. Nor was the one she ate to her jaw, that made her stumble. Definitely weren't due to that glass she carried 'round for half the night before finally drinking. Or the second one she simply knocked back. Or the next one, after she stopped caring. Or the next.
Yeah. Mistakes.
Didn't matter. Didn't matter none. Red didn't know. Vegas didn't judge. A glass in hand kept waitresses from glaring her down for tips, and fucking clueless men from trying to buy for two girls who were, presumably, just pals. Who cared if she had a drink, just to blend in? She sniffed wetly. Wandering through Sin City, lost girl in men's clothes, mouth full of blood and heart full of violence--and just realizing how fucking stupid it was. Fitting in. Trying to live a fucking normal life. One where living weren't just means to an end. A life where she had her dog and her bike and good takeout and some place that was hers. So she could throw a party with all the friends she didn't fucking have, or whatever.
Christ. What a fucking joke. Believing that? Was the biggest fucking mistake of them all.
Dahlia spat onto the pavement. Breathed out unsteady. Smeared red onto the back of her hand and sniffed again, just once. Leaning heavy against a wall, she sat down on the steps in the alley. Shook out the cigarette packet in her jacket, stuck one between lips. Another vice she was indulging lately. Lit it with a shitty plastic lighter. She realized she didn't know where her partner-in-crime was, but she weren't in any hurry to find her. Red would manage just fine, but she bet the girl would wanna talk. And she figured the reason their thing, whatever it was, worked was 'cause they fucked far more than they talked. So she sure as shit weren't eager to change that now.
Violent neon of the city flickered above her on black velvet sky. Sighing smoke, Dahlia stared at the kiss of red left behind on her cigarette, licking her lips clean.