A/N: So I have a confession... I love 28 days later. I have for years and it's an odd sort of love. I was watching the movie not long ago and was like geeeez why haven't I made a fanfic about it yet?! So here it is! 28 Days Later is not my brain child, I just own my dear little Katie.
"Isn't that like your third gin and tonic? Boy, you're throwing them back tonight huh?"
The room was dimly lit and foggy from all the cigarettes that had been smoked that night in the windowless room. Body glitter and booze bottles littered the floor and dressing tables. A woman sat at one of the tables with her feet propped up on it and a half filled glass caressing her lips. She glared at the woman that had spoken to her.
"Shut up you coke whore." The woman walked over to her and stood behind her, placing her hands on the chair. She leaned down and began to whisper softly into the other woman's ear.
"Don't get mad because all your wrinkles are starting to show. How does it feel to be the only woman with sagging tits in the room? Why do you even bother to show up, no one wants to see you anymore." She then stood up straight and walked out of the room, purposely swaying her narrow hips with every step.
The woman at the dressing table threw back the remains of her drink in one gulp. Making sure no one was around, she leaned into the mirror to see if she really had wrinkles. Much to her relief she saw none. She eyed herself in the mirror, fingering her dark brown hair in curls that cascaded down her back . Her eyes were a clear hazel and her skin flawless and tan. She didn't have the perfect body but it was nice enough for her job.
She was in her mid-twenties, but in her line of work, she was well beyond her prime. She knew it, but what else was she to do? She had neither trade nor a good education.
It seemed like all she knew how to do was dance and drink. Drink and dance.
Her petit hand covered her eyes, fighting off the tears that threatened to fall. This was her life, and there was nothing better out there for her.
With shaky hands sliding down her makeup-covered face, she stared at herself long and hard. She despised her cherry red painted lip, her smoky eyes and light blush. It all just reminded her of the years she had wasted in this hell hole, night after night, wearing the same mask of makeup.
There was no point crying now, she had made her decision long ago that this was going to be her life, but was it too late to change her mind? How sound was a 17 year olds decision making capabilities anyway?
It felt like so long ago when she was just 17, young and but far from innocent. One tends to lose their naïve, young mind when parented the way she was.
Her mother was an infamous drunk, never seen without a bottle of vodka in the clutches of her hand. Thinking back, the young woman could recall times when her mother would drink mouth wash in desperate attempts to stay in her drunken haze. That was usually when she would claim that she would stop drinking, but quickly would realize how she hated being sober.
She hated being a mother, she hated being a wife, she loved forgetting she was either, she loved not having a care in the world.
Her husband was a spineless man, not the man she had wanted to marry. He didn't like going out or doing anything fun. All he ever did was work, come home, sleep, eat and repeat the cycle again the next day. He ignored his wife's drinking problem.
He ignored how his wife would swing his leather belt at their only daughter, he'd ignore her screams of agony and pain as the belt would mercilessly crack down on her bare back.
Trying to tell Sara to stop was more trouble than it was worth when she was drunk and Milton just wasn't willing to deal with it. He had a hard enough time at work. Besides, his daughter would learn to stop aggravating her mother as he had.
At 17 the young girl could no longer deal with the life her parents gave her. She knew she would do nothing wrong, yet her mother would find any excuse to lash out at her, attack her with her tiny, brutal fist and heart breaking words. She couldn't recall a time her mother held her close and whispered words of love or encouragement.
All she remembered were beatings, being yelled at or just flat out ignored. Only one person adored her, and that was her grandmother.
Sweet Nana, how she doted on her only granddaughter. She showered the girl with love and praise, but she was gone now. No longer could she stay in that home. So, she ran away, far away from the sleepy town by the English country and to London.
The young woman stood up from her dressing table, tugging on her tight booty shorts and bikini top. There wasn't much left to the imagination, but it was part of her line of work. Sometimes she would find herself laughing at the irony of her running away to find a better life only to end up in another hell.
It seemed like there was no escape for her, not now, not ever.
"Calling to the stage, Ms. Scarlet!" she heard a few claps, but nothing to be wowed by. She took a deep breath before throwing on her smile filled with false confidence. Her stilettos clicked with every strutting step she took.
Scarlet grabbed the gold pole and swung from it, her leg expertly hooking around it and allowing her to glide around it. She shot a charming smile to an older man with gray hair and a perverted smirk. She was his favorite dancer. He came nightly just to watch her and always asked if she would go home with him. No amount of money was enough for her to sleep with any man. She always declined everyone's offer.
On her hands and knees, she crawled over to him, her perky ass sticking in the air teasingly. He held out a 5 dollar bill and watched with lust coated eyes when she seductively took the money with her mouth and backed away slowly, still crawling.
Now came the part she hated. She stood up and undid her bikini top. She hated the way the men eyed her breast. They were all disgusting beings, not caring that she was a lost soul that needed saving and love, only seeing a nice rack and ass.
She lay on her back, reaching out and grabbing the dirty money that had been thrown at her. Feeling the same sense of shame she always did, she threw it over her body in front of her audience.
She didn't want to keep feeling the shame, the self-hatred and she didn't want to keep wallowing in her own self-pity waiting for someone to save her.
No one was going to save her, she had to save herself, but she had no idea how to.