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- Joined
- May 26, 2015
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((DRAFT)) Baby Doe wasn't her real name, but she had thought it cute when he called her that. Now, she hated it. The nick had become a norm. She had forgotten how it felt to answer to her birth name, Marietta June Keyston. She had forgotten who that person was; so long ago, so nieave and so very much desperate for his love. Baby Doe was now her identity in the world he had shaped for her. She was now trapped in his empire, lost without a compass to point out sanity's direction. No longer desperate for his love, but maybe addicted? Had it come down to that? Addicted like a drug abuser - she felt hopeless.
Baby Doe tapped her half-smoked cigarette against the heavy glass ashtray, dazed. Who gave a fuck anyways? He gave a fuck when she didn't dress to his standards and he gave a fuck when he caught her smoking but he didn't give a fuck about her drama. Her feelings were drama to him, always. But as long as she played her part he was happy with her. His happiness was what gave a fuck. That was her hang-up. She wanted him happy. Poor, confused, Baby Doe.
He had a great set-up. The Centennial Hotel Suites had been inherited to him, and he now had more money than what he knew to do with. So he spent it on his hobby, which somehow involved pimping girls out to paying customers, and somehow involved placing Baby Doe smack in the middle of it all. Baby Doe felt useful to him, and proved to be quite a valuable asset as she caught on to the buried talent. A 'buried talent' was how he coined it, and how she came to understand it.
She pressed her ruby red lips against the cigarette butt and inhaled deeply, lulling her eyes. At the same time a digit of her other hand dabbed and caressed the side of a shot glass, empty.
"Dan, where is my second?" She asked the tender, gently. Smoke trailed out between her words and her steady, golden disc hues wouldn't allow him to pretend that he didn't hear this time.
"No more for you Baby." The tender replied, "that wouldn't be your second, or your third, or your fourth, you know? And I am under strict orders how many you can have." He glanced around before adding, "and you should put out that light in case he comes around. You know he hates to see you smoke."
"Shi..." Baby Doe hissed to herself, irritated. "He's not coming around Dan. I am working. I need my buzz, you know that! I need to be somewhere between 'oh shit what am I doing' and 'oh shit I don't care'. Come on Dan...please?"
But Dan denied her plea once again and turned his back to her.
Baby shook her head, frustrated. Anger...bitterness...hopelessness. She dabbed the lighted end of the cigarette into the ashes, snuffing it out; not because she was afraid of getting caught but because she needed to vent out her emotions. There was pent-up energy transferred into the death of that cigarette, and her foot began to bob up and down as she sat cross legged. Still, a classy woman Baby remained, because being lady-like never escaped her trained demeanor. But a distressed lady she was...a lady who didn't know how to help herself.
"Baby Doe, your client is ready in room 506" A messenger boy delivered the news.
"Very well." She answered, dry.
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((DRAFT)) Baby Doe wasn't her real name, but she had thought it cute when he called her that. Now, she hated it. The nick had become a norm. She had forgotten how it felt to answer to her birth name, Marietta June Keyston. She had forgotten who that person was; so long ago, so nieave and so very much desperate for his love. Baby Doe was now her identity in the world he had shaped for her. She was now trapped in his empire, lost without a compass to point out sanity's direction. No longer desperate for his love, but maybe addicted? Had it come down to that? Addicted like a drug abuser - she felt hopeless.
Baby Doe tapped her half-smoked cigarette against the heavy glass ashtray, dazed. Who gave a fuck anyways? He gave a fuck when she didn't dress to his standards and he gave a fuck when he caught her smoking but he didn't give a fuck about her drama. Her feelings were drama to him, always. But as long as she played her part he was happy with her. His happiness was what gave a fuck. That was her hang-up. She wanted him happy. Poor, confused, Baby Doe.
He had a great set-up. The Centennial Hotel Suites had been inherited to him, and he now had more money than what he knew to do with. So he spent it on his hobby, which somehow involved pimping girls out to paying customers, and somehow involved placing Baby Doe smack in the middle of it all. Baby Doe felt useful to him, and proved to be quite a valuable asset as she caught on to the buried talent. A 'buried talent' was how he coined it, and how she came to understand it.
She pressed her ruby red lips against the cigarette butt and inhaled deeply, lulling her eyes. At the same time a digit of her other hand dabbed and caressed the side of a shot glass, empty.
"Dan, where is my second?" She asked the tender, gently. Smoke trailed out between her words and her steady, golden disc hues wouldn't allow him to pretend that he didn't hear this time.
"No more for you Baby." The tender replied, "that wouldn't be your second, or your third, or your fourth, you know? And I am under strict orders how many you can have." He glanced around before adding, "and you should put out that light in case he comes around. You know he hates to see you smoke."
"Shi..." Baby Doe hissed to herself, irritated. "He's not coming around Dan. I am working. I need my buzz, you know that! I need to be somewhere between 'oh shit what am I doing' and 'oh shit I don't care'. Come on Dan...please?"
But Dan denied her plea once again and turned his back to her.
Baby shook her head, frustrated. Anger...bitterness...hopelessness. She dabbed the lighted end of the cigarette into the ashes, snuffing it out; not because she was afraid of getting caught but because she needed to vent out her emotions. There was pent-up energy transferred into the death of that cigarette, and her foot began to bob up and down as she sat cross legged. Still, a classy woman Baby remained, because being lady-like never escaped her trained demeanor. But a distressed lady she was...a lady who didn't know how to help herself.
"Baby Doe, your client is ready in room 506" A messenger boy delivered the news.
"Very well." She answered, dry.