usova violetta semyonovna

Violetta rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm, blinking against the sunset light that filtered in through the cracked blinds. Her head ached, and her throat felt dry—too dry. She turned, expecting an empty space beside her, but no. Her client from the night before was still there, sprawled out like a corpse, mouth half-open, snoring like sin itself.

With a low hum, Violetta sat up, reaching for the crumpled hoodie tossed at the end of the bed. Red and black checkered, like a warning flag. She shrugged it on with practiced ease, pulling the hood up against the sharp stab of fading sunlight piercing through the window. Her fingers dug around on the nightstand until they found the half-smoked joint she vaguely remembered lighting the night before. Lucky her. One less thing to worry about.

The lighter clicked, and the sharp burn of the first inhale pulled her closer to wakefulness. Her gaze drifted lazily to the wallet left carelessly on the dresser. She was on her feet in seconds. Rummaging through it felt more like routine than guilt, pulling out a couple crumpled bills and tucking them into her waistband. “Rippin’ me off, were ya?” she muttered to the unconscious man. “Call it tax.”

Her sweatpants sagged low on her hips, and she tugged them up with a hiss. “Damn it... dropped ‘em again. Nasty ass bastard shoulda cleaned up after ‘imself.” Her accent, always thickest in the mornings, bled through her words as she stepped over the clutter on the floor and out the door.

The stairwell in her apartment complex smelled like mildew and something worse, but it was quiet. That meant the landlord wasn’t around yet, and for once, luck was on her side. She hurried up the stairs, fumbling with the keys until her door gave way with a groan. But she had no time to exhale.

Her phone buzzed.

Got the stuff in the usual hiding spot. Extra for a good BJ ;)

Violetta made a sound halfway between a scoff and a gag. Her stomach churned, and she pressed a palm against it. She barely even remembered doing it, but the memory still floated back like a bloated body in water. That week had been hell—she’d been out of everything and desperate. He’d offered a trade. She'd taken it.

Free was free.

Especially when Gav, her so-called "pimp," would come knocking to collect a cut of everything.

The door slammed behind her on the way out. She moved fast, not wanting to run into anyone—especially Gav. The alley wasn’t far, but it felt like miles. With each step, her heartbeat sped up, not from fear... not entirely. Anticipation hummed in her bones. Her hands twitched.

The stash was behind a broken panel on an old dumpster, right where it always was. Violetta dropped to her knees, yanking it free. A small baggie of weed, a little coke, some pills she couldn’t even name. Her fingers shook as she tore into it, desperate for the high, for the silence it offered.

The alley was quiet, mostly. Quiet in the way places are right before a storm or a funeral. A few voices rang out from nearby—a group of regulars or street rats recognizing her flaming red hair even from behind.

“Ain’t that Joker? Gav’s little plaything?”

“Damn, I remember her. Good ride for a night.”

“Yo, Joker, you want a good laugh, I got one in my pants!”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance their way. Just lit up and took a long drag. The heat hit her chest, spread through her limbs. One of the men laughed, but it turned into silence when she slumped against the wall, shoulders rounded, head down.

Eventually, they left her alone. She always gave off that look—the one that said: approach and you’ll lose your teeth.

Hours passed. She didn’t know how many. Time meant nothing once the drugs hit. But slowly, at some point between the haze and the quiet, the tears started.

Silent at first.

Then gasping.

She stared into a shallow puddle, her reflection warped and shaky. Her fingers curled into her palms, and she buried her face in her hands, letting out a broken sob. It slipped from her like a secret she didn’t mean to tell.

God, she hated this. Hated being seen like this—weak, cracked open, bleeding through her eyes.

Then—

Movement. The slightest shift of air. She lifted her head and spotted someone standing just at the edge of the alleyway, a silhouette cast in shadow. Her heart jumped to her throat as she scrambled up, her back hitting the wall.

Her eyes narrowed. Arms crossed.

“Wh- What—you want a night? Or you with the cops?” she snapped, her voice rough with smoke and sorrow. “You seein’ me cry? That’s gonna cost ya some extra.”

She sniffed, chin lifting defiantly. “Tears ain’t free, not no more.”

And just like that, the mask slipped back on.