The megablock's facade is a patchwork of lit windows. I stand against the glass of my tiny flat, staring at yellow squares. Each one a life I'm not part of. In one, a lone cat-owner flicks TV channels; in another, a kid sleeps tight beside a growling server farm.
Outside, a hovercar whines down the street and distant sirens mix with neon chatter from a street preacher's holosound. I wonder what stories those apartments hold. Me? I'm an unpaid spectator to every lonely scene out there, wrapped in city light and the dark they can't pierce.
The door closes with a thunk and suddenly I'm here—in the underbelly, the back room of my life. The lights are out, the ceiling fan's just chewing air I don't have patience for. The rank scent of sweat, spilled cheap perfume, and leftover club punch greets me.
My futon is a stained lump on the floor; the threadbare rug underneath still smells like last week's regret. I kick off my stiletto boots (toes bruised, ankles creaking) and drop my backpack by the kitchenette. The fridge hums empty promises. Nobody's waiting with sympathy, and frankly I don't want it. I talk to myself: "Look at this fucking palace." The walls close in nice and tight, but at least they're real.
I strip off the rest of last night's armor. Sequined corset and miniskirt slither down, tangled like discontent on the floor. A lace thong and bra—Velvet's costume—collapse into a heap next to the coffee table, smelling faintly of burnt coffee and yesterday's brandy.
My body feels like borrowed equipment: ribs tight in a corset, nipples bruised from two shifts of cheap milk and grease. I catch my reflection in a cracked mirror. This face is gaunt, mascara running into the fine lines I'm wrinkling at twenty-three. Velvet's painted lips have faded into a thin line. I wink at her anyway. "Morning, tiger," I croak to the mirror. No reply. Probably for the best.
I step into the window's neon glow, a half-ghost among scratched-up furniture. My silhouette leans on the sill, edges blurred green and purple from street ads blinking below. Out there on the boulevard, Stairways to Heaven glitters on the skyline, twelve floors up from this shitbox... While here I stand in nothing but skin and scars.
The city pulses outside: a synth-hum of billboard speakers, the echo of distant laughter, the slow drip of polluted rain off the rooftop. In this quiet, I can feel Velvet's heels tapping on my bones. She's supposed to go away after sunrise, but she still shimmies in my spine.
Nobody's watching me now, but I still perform. I roll my shoulders and pretend I'm onstage, arching that shadow through the neon like I owe somebody something.
On my worktable lies the black card I fished out of my boot. Slick plastic with a frosted logo, offered by a slick man after last set: Skyline Card: Authorized Access to Stairways to Heaven. If I was herding dreams this early, mine would crash on the floor by now. I pick it up and thumb the city lights through it.
What is this, anyway? A fast-pass into a gold-laced cage? I slip it between my fingers. Wristband from a party, nothing more. For now. Beyond that, it's just cold potential. Something I haven't earned, dangling like a toothless promise. I stare at it like it might solve something, or at least make me feel something besides empty.
Nobody said survival would be easy. My routine is religion now: strip, sleep, sleep away.
I uncross my aching legs and collapse onto the tatty futon. The hole in the wall may as well be my womb now, alone as a cancer cell. I don't press the card to my forehead or burn it; it slides into my pocket and rests there warm against my thigh.
Maybe tomorrow I'll figure out if Stairways leads up or down. Tonight, the city's breath lulls me. The same city that sold me out still sings a lullaby. I pull the stained quilt over my legs. Velvet's heels are kicked off by the door, and I smile a little at the thought: I can finally rest the performer's posture.
This is all I have to give....
Night after night, peeling off every costume and lying here with nothing but fluorescent loneliness. But hey, at least I showed up. And if you're listening (and why the hell are you?), that's all we've got. Sweet dreams, kid.