Jillian awoke, with the faint glimmer of sunlight crossing her face. With little effort, she swung out of her bed and stood up, momentarily losing balance. Several spots of white flooded her vision like the effect of having stared at the sun too long. Last night was another let down; only $50 dollars all night. It’s that fucking scar she said, glancing in the mirror. It stood out against her pale skin like a macabre smile. She dared not think of the perpetrator; just another nut-job who feel in love with the wrong woman. Every day since, she was scared he was going to kick her door down and finish the job. The thought still scared her; what also didn’t help was the ineptitude of the New York Police. Things had gone to shit big time; they couldn’t even give her anonymity as they were busy with the-then at large serial rapist who stalked the alleys like a modern day Jack the Ripper. But the guy was shot down a month ago... what is taking them? She thought, as goose bumps broke out on her arms. The police had some-what bluntly told her to stay put where she was; the only solace came in the form of a new apartment. Yes, it was derelict and seemed to reflect the new depression that sunk into New York like a disease, but least this one had a door that actually locked. She couldn’t count how many times her clients had simply walked on in and saw her (usually) with her 3:00. That was how Jack had found her with the Mayor’s son.
The name rang through her head like a migraine slowly forming. She rubbed her temples furiously and began to think of happier times. That month in France; being a bridesmaid; Hell... the first time I smoked a joint. It did the trick; no anxiety attack was forth coming. At least for now.
She had a lot of work to do today; a lot indeed. She pulled off her over-sized tee-shirt (a large grey one which she always slept in; she knew it was his but she felt safe in it for reasons she could not understand) and revealed the slender, beautiful body that clients simply drooled over. She shook her long mess of black hair and opened the adjacent door to her shower. After last night, she felt dirty indeed.
Twenty minutes later, she was clean, dressed and ready to go. She wore an old ragged jean jacket over a black tee-shirt with the band logo Pseudonym glaring accusingly. She also wore dark, faded jeans folded over a pair of large boots; these particular boots came in handy for her other source of income.
She stuffed two tens of cannabis into her one boot, while her other boot had been filled with a baggie of various pills. Uppers, downers, valiums, ecstacy, percodans, ludes... catered to those care free teenagers and fashionable anorexics. When she was sorting these assorted drugs upon her bed, she had long forgotten about Jack; she even stopped touching the white scar on her left cheek.
But now, the scar tingled weakly. She clasped a hand to it. It’s nothing, just nerves... both of your boots are filled with enough merch to send everyone in this block to green heaven. It’s nerves, that’s all.
But she did not believe herself.
Pushing that thought to the back of her mind, she took the elevator to floor seven; home of her first customer.