Of Small Matters with Big Consequences

by lildark7

Hanna is new to Santa Monica. Barely getting by, she decides that she needs to do something about her situation, or she will end up on the streets. So she applies for the job as part-time hostess at the club around the corner from where she lives.

1. Necessities

Chapter 1: Necessities

Notes: I'll write on this whenever I get bored I guess. It's kinda different from the style of writing I usually do. So this is kind of an experimental project.

I look around the store carefully. There's only the cashier around and he is reading a magazine, seemingly dying of boredom. Poor guy got the graveyard shift. It's pretty late right now and I guess nobody ever bothers to come in at this hour. Well, other than me. But I'm weird anyway.

I check the left hand row of clothes that are marked 'for sale' and 'two for one', pull out two simple, white tank tops, then another one in black. I smile. They will fit, and lucky for me, they don't have the ink tags on them.

I head to the fitting room and take off my saggy gray t-shirt. I try on one of the white tops, casually put my t-shirt back on and walk out of there with one less item than I came in with.

I walk up to the cashier. He wasn't reading a magazine after all. He's reading a comic. I have a look at the title. "Fables: Legends in Exile," I say. By Bill Willingham. Never heard of him. "Is it any good?" I place the two tank tops on the counter.

The cashier looks up at me, giving me a genuine smile. "Oh, yes. It's set in modern day New York and all the creatures from folklore were exiled from their worlds and live among us, disguised as humans by something called 'a glamour'. They all live in a luxury apartment building that they call Fabletown. Someone gets murdered at the start and the Big Bad Wolf, the sheriff of Fabletown, is investigating. I can really recommend it." He bags my purchase and lets me know, "That'd be 9.99."

I hand him the money. "Thanks. I might even start reading it. Have a good night."

He nods. "You too."

I walk out the store without being stopped. I have to admit, I've done this so many times, I lost count. "This is seriously my favorite store in town." And it really is, not just because I can constantly swipe things from it without consequences. I met my first friend in there when I had just moved here a while ago. His name is Brian. He's nice. He is the only person who ever caught me shoplifting. Yes, he caught me shoplifting. That's been our first encounter. I thought he was gonna rat me out, but no. He paid for the shirt I was in the process of stealing. One just like the one I am wearing under my sack of a t-shirt right now. I'm still in shock over it. He just took it from me, wordlessly, went to the cash register, gave the clerk the money and came straight back to me. I must have looked completely dumbfounded when he handed me the shirt with a smirk and said, "Pleased to meet you, I'm Brian. While I'm at it, wanna grab a coffee with me? I don't feel like going alone."

I agreed. Now we're best friends. The first talk we had at Starbucks is something I will always remember fondly. Felt like something out of a movie. We instantly clicked, just like that.

I don't own a car, whenever I need to travel a longer distance, I can take the bus, otherwise I just walk everywhere. Turning the corner, my gaze falls onto Trip's Pawnshop, above it are a series of shitty apartments. In one of which, I live. Apartment 506, Hanna Moore.

There's no mail in the mailbox, as always. I rarely get mail, and if I do, it's usually unpleasant things. Bills, most of all.

I turn the key in the lock and enter, my brown sleeper sofa greeting me. It's a one room apartment, small and badly insulated. I can already imagine my heating bill for winter skyrocketing through the roof.

I sigh, take off my shoes, turn on the TV and proceed to put a pizza in the oven. I'm always hungry. My anxiety burns through the food I ingest like fire through dry wood. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and curse myself. I have left it on silent.

1 missed call. 5 minutes ago.

I recognize the number immediately. It's the club's manager. The one I applied at a few days ago.

I feel my nerves start to sing. I need the job, desperately. I don't steal shit for no reason. I barely am able to manage paying rent and having enough food. New clothes and other things are already troublesome to get without overdrawing my bank account some months.

I tell myself to calm the fuck down. It never really helps. I'm so nervous it's a wonder my hands aren't shaking. I hit the call button and every time I hear the dial tone, the more I want to hang up again.

"Miss Moore," a female voice on the other end greets me formally. "This is Therese Voerman. I hope I am not interrupting anything important."

Please don't let my voice shake, I pray before answering, "Not at all, Miss Voerman. It's good to hear from you. I'm sorry I couldn't pick up a few minutes ago."

"It's quite alright." There's a short pause before she continues, "I wanted to invite you for an interview. How soon can you come in? If everything is in order you could start working tomorrow night. My sister will be there to help you familiarize yourself with the club and the handling of the clientele."

I run it through in my head quickly. This is a great opportunity. "I could be over in about half an hour, if that's alright with you."

"Wonderful." She sounds quite pleased with my reply. "I'll let Cal, my bartender, know you're coming. Speak to him when you've arrived and he'll send you up to my office."

"Thank you, Miss Voerman. I'm looking forward to meeting you."

"Likewise. See you later."

The line goes dead and I breathe a breath of relief. So far, so good. Now I have to decide what to wear. I open the drawer of my dresser and inspect the contents. I pull out gray skinny jeans and a white blouse. It should do. I change my sneakers for a pair of black ballet flats and feel quite good about my choice of clothing. My phone, keys and wallet go into a small black purse before I'm on my way to the Asylum.

Once there however, I'm starting to doubt my choice of dress is fitting the general atmosphere of the club. Just one look around is telling me that the clientele is quite 'eccentric'. Even Cal, the bartender doesn't look like your usual bartender. He's covered in tattoos. He's bulky and looks quite imposing. I'm pretty sure he acts as a bouncer from time to time as well.

He smiles at me as I draw closer and I have to speak quite loudly to be heard over the blaring of the music. "My name's Hanna Moore. Miss Voerman is expecting me."

He nods. "Take the elevator behind you. I'll let her know you're here."

"Thanks." I turn and check the crowd again. There are some people dressed normally, but they're in the minority.

As the doors open and close again, they block out most of the music, then it fades as the elevator makes its way to the first floor.

I knock and from the other side I hear Miss Voerman. "Please, come in."

I do and she walks up to me. She's quite tall. Black glasses sit on her nose, framing her steel gray eyes. Her hair is tired into a neat bun and she's wearing business attire. A brown skirt and matching blazer. She looks so composed, so self confident, that it instantly makes my social anxiety have an appearance. I feel small in her presence. I'm intimidated and I pray to god it doesn't show.

"So, in your letter it said you're relatively new to Santa Monica. How do you like it here, so far?" she asks and gestures to a small table with two chairs in the room. "Have a seat."

"It's quite nice. I frequently visit the pier and I've been to the gallery."

Miss Voerman sits down opposite to me. "Very nice." She pauses for a moment, then, "No need to be nervous."

Shit. I hoped it wouldn't show. This isn't helping my situation. I'm being interviewed for a hostess position, I definitely shouldn't appear nervous around people. I am probably giving off the impression of being completely incompetent and incompatible for said position.

"I'm sorry. It's just that this is really important to me. It usually goes away during a day or two." It's not a lie. Once I get used to the workplace, I feel right at home.

"I appreciate your honesty."

I notice that she has printed out my letter and CV and is flicking through it.

With a smile on her lips, she looks up from the documents and tells me, "From what I read here, I think you will fit in quite nicely. My sister is a bit more laid back in her attitude and I believe you will get along with her quite well. I get the impression you're more comfortable in less formal situations."

She's 100 percent right. I don't do well with situations where you have to follow a very strict set of etiquette and rules. Because half the time, I don't know how to act in those. They send my brain into a spiral of doubt and make me scared of doing something wrong from a lack of knowledge. "I am, yes."

"Well then," Miss Voerman says. "Come in tomorrow night at 10 PM. My sister will be waiting for you downstairs. You can't miss her. Pigtails, red lipsticks and a lot of eye makeup, wears a mini skirt and crop top."

"Is there a dress code for hostesses?" I inquire.

She actually laughs. I like her better when she's amused. It takes away the cold facade.

"There isn't. Jeanette is just the freak show I keep around to lure in curiosity seekers. You're free to come in jeans and t-shirt if you like, or put on some schoolgirl outfit and act, like my sister. It's your choice. As long as you're good with the clientele and there aren't any complaints, you can do as you please."

Hearing this makes me a lot more comfortable. "Thank you, Miss Voerman. I'm very happy to have the chance to be working with you and your sister."

"You're welcome. Jeanette will see you tomorrow. You'll get your paycheck from me every two weeks." She stands up and moves over to the door with me and extends her hand.

Remember to squeeze a bit, I remind myself. Or she will think she's shaking hands with a dead fish.

I take it and force myself to look at her as I do so. I hate handshakes. I absolutely do.

Almost imperceptibly her eyebrow raises and I wonder why. I don't need need to wonder long though. Miss Voerman's voice holds the slightest bit of surprise when she states, "Your hands are extremely cold. Are you feeling alright?"

I'm taken aback. Now that she mentions this, hers weren't warmer than mine. Which is quite unusual. Usually people's hands are always warmer. "I have really bad circulation, plus it gets worse when I'm anxious or nervous. It's nothing to worry about though. I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."

She lets go of my hand. "I would like for you to go over to the clinic to get your blood tested though, just to make sure it's nothing serious. I fund the hospital. One of my employees at the blood bank will take a sample. It's right around the corner and he's working night shifts. I'll let him know you're coming if you have time. It doesn't take long. His name is Vandal Cleaver, he should be sitting at the reception of the blood bank downstairs."

A blood test? Well, I guess if she wants to make sure I'm healthy it's fine? It does strike me as slightly strange though, but I don't question it. I rarely question things. I'm one of those people who believe a lot of things if the person who's telling them, seems to know what they're talking about. I'm probably also a bit too trusting sometimes.

"Of course, I'll go right away." And with that, I'm off to the blood bank.

I'm not a fan of hospitals, but as I make my way downstairs, I get the impression that Miss Voerman's funds are sorely needed. Even as someone who knows jack shit about regulations can tell that this, is not how it should be. The wallpaper is cracked and almost peeling off the walls near the ceiling at some places and there's a faint, musty smell in the air. I hope this is only like this in the hallway, but I'm proven wrong as I turn the corner, go through the door and make my way to the reception area, which is a glass panel on the right side near yet another door.

A man with shoulder long, brown hair turns from the computer screen to me, gets up and walks to the window. This must be Vandal. He's around a few years older than me, from what I can tell. He's smiling, but it's definitely not reaching his eyes. His eyes. They're ice blue. Beautiful, but cold, and not in color, but in expression. I can feel that I'm staring at him. I can feel my brain going blank, all thoughts in it disappearing, replaced with a black emptiness and I'm not moving, or blinking, or normally functioning. I've never been to a psychiatrist before, but I kind of know this isn't normal. It's like I entered some state of trance.

He narrows his eyes at me. And when I show no reaction at all, he looks kind of surprised. "You're Hanna, right?"

I hear him speak, I hear him clearly but I am unable to answer him. I can think the words through a thick wall of fog, but my lips aren't moving to speak them.

"Hey, I asked you a question!" he sounds annoyed now.

I still cannot move. When I don't respond this time, he turns around and walks out of the booth. From the corner of my eyes, I see the door next to the window open and he steps out.

"Of course Queen Bitch sends me someone to take a sample from and she turns out to be having a catatonic episode right as she gets here. Wonderful." He sounds so pissed.

Catatonic? Queen Bitch?! Is he talking about Therese Voerman? Why would he use such an insulting nickname? I got questions about that! This already sucks. I hope I snap out of it soon. It usually doesn't last long.

Vandal comes closer. I wonder what would happen if he touches me. I've always been alone when this happens. I don't actually want him to though.

"Let's hope nobody comes down here and sees you like this. They'd drag you right up to the third floor." He smirks. "That's the mental ward, by the way."

No, no, no, no, no! No one is dragging me to a mental ward! I'm perfectly fine. It'll go away. It's not serious.

I blink, while he continues to watch me with an almost curious look on his sharp featured face.

He continues to speak to me, "Nah, I wouldn't let them take you away. This is a nice change to my routine. I get to talk and for once, I have someone unable to talk back, or interrupt me, or ask stupid questions. Feels good to have someone just listen to my voice and nothing else."

If I didn't know better, he's actually having fun. And somehow, just having him talk is pulling me out of this quicker. My head slightly turns, almost in slow motion. Through the clearing fog another thought forms. I like his voice, I actually do.

"Well at least it didn't last long," he comments. "Think you can walk yet?"

I make a face as if I've bitten into a lemon. No.

"Should I get a wheelchair to speed this up?"

I can't tell if he's joking or not.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and mutters to himself, "The shit the Queen Bitch tells me to put up with."

Again, the nickname. I feel a bit like waking up and now, finally, thankfully, I turn to him completely, even if the movement is a bit slowed.

"I guess that's a no," Vandal comments and walks towards the door he had come out of, checking if I'm following him.

"Thank you for your patience." I mean it.

He shrugs.

With the thud of the door falling shut behind us, my head is clear again, but now instead of being unable to, I just don't feel like talking anymore.

We enter a room with a medical cot, a few counters with drawers and two x-ray prints hanging on the left.

"Roll up your right sleeve and lie down," he orders me, and I comply wordlessly. He's pulling things out of the drawers. I see gloves, a small tube with a needle attached to it, a tourniquet and disinfectant wipes.

He comes over to me and places them on a small stand next to the cot and reaches for my arm. There's a slight twitching of the corner of his mouth as his eyes fall on it. I always forget my arms are covered in thin white scars. He turns it over and finds new scratches there.

"Do you own a cat?" he asks. Or in other words. Did you do this to yourself?

I did do this to myself, yes. "No." I don't care if he knows.

He ties the tourniquet on me runs his finger along my arm in search for a vein. Even through the gloves I notice that his hands are almost hot. He asks, "So you met the Queen Bitch. How do you like her?"

Something in his tone unnerves me. I feel like saying something wrong here could get me in serious trouble. "Miss Voerman is very polite and forthcoming and I'm really glad I got the chance to work with her and her sister." It's all I dare to say.

"When do you start working at the club?"

I feel a bit like being questioned. "Tomorrow at 10 PM. Jeanette Voerman is to show me the ropes."

His expression changes for but a moment. He looks almost unsettled. Almost. "Have fun. She's crazy."

It makes me laugh. "She can't be more crazy than me. That makes it a good match though."

His finger presses down on a vein and disinfects the spot then grabs the needle with the tube from the stand. "Take a deep breath." I do, and he quickly drives the needle in. He watches the blood run out of me with a smile. "Do you know your blood type?"

I guessed that would be something someone working at the blood bank would be interested in. "Yeah, it's AB negative."

"You should donate," he says. "Queen Bitch would love that."

"Why would she love it if I donated blood to the hospital? Don't you get your stock from somewhere?" I'm confused. I don't know how this actually works. Also, shouldn't he be pulling out the tube soon? It's almost full.

And just as I think it, he unties the tourniquet and removes the needle from my arm. He seals the tube and labels it. "Be careful when you're sitting up. You might get dizzy."

I slowly do and Vandal watches my movements. I feel fine. Disappointment flickers over his face. This strikes me as weird, but as always, I choose to ignore the fact. Even doubt that I've really seen it.

"And to answer your question: We don't get a lot of your blood type. It's always low in stock. After all it is the rarest, only making up 0.6 percent of the population," he explains.

Why do I feel like he's telling white lies? Why do I feel like I'm only getting half the story? Because I'm paranoid and stupid, that's why.

He pulls off the first glove.

What I see makes me freeze up shortly. Oh no. My chest fills up with pain. Across his wrist runs a series of long, raised scars. They look really serious. They look like -

His voice cuts off my thoughts and makes my head snap up. "These are from when I had to stock up supplies with my own blood."

What?! I'm unsure if I like his sense of morbid, dark humor.

"Maybe your new job will add a few more scars to your arm too."

He isn't joking, not really. The metaphor is clear to me. However his tone, it scares me. This sounds simultaneously like a warning and a threat. The worst thing about his remark though, is that he's probably right.

"Are we done?" I ask. I want to get out of here now. His change in demeanor is freaking me out.

The snap of the glove coming off his other hand is so loud in the sudden quiet that has fallen. "For now."

The grin on his face. I won't get that out of my head again for a while.

I get up from the cot and he steps up to me and extends his hand.

Fucking handshakes. I'm so done with this that I almost refuse to shake it. It takes me 3 seconds before I do, and I only do so because the look he's giving me darkens and I really don't want to piss him off. Pissing this guy off seems like one of the worst ideas ever.

I wince. It's like he's trying to break my hand. "Ow, man." I feel my knuckles rub against each other under the strength of his grasp. It hurts. And yes, his skin is burning. What the hell.

"Please come back some time," he purrs.

Now this, contrasting with the force he's holding my hand with, is creepy.

"I will." I say it only to give him what he wants. I can't know if I'm coming back. Maybe I really will be coming back, who knows?

His grip loosens. "Will you?" He's delighted.

I nod. "Yes." So fucking creepy.

He lets go, but doesn't step back.

Do not fucking run, I tell myself. I should stay as calm as I can.

"It doesn't really matter if you come back here or not," he mumbles and looks off to the side before his gaze finds me again. "I will see you tomorrow."

Excuse me? "Wh-?" His hand moves into the direction of my face too fast for me to process. I can't even react. I'm in shock. He just placed his finger on my mouth to shut me up!

He chuckles, "Don't waste your words. Have a good night."

I stare at him.

He steps back, and when I make no implications that I'm gonna go he growls, "You can leave now."

I turn on my heels and hurry out. As the door falls shut, I think I hear him bursting into laughter.

Fuck this guy. He's got a few more screws loose than me. I'm convinced of that. He's a completely different kind of weird. I think the entire time I was in there with him, he was enjoying it, but not in a good way. More in a way a young cat enjoys playing with a mouse before finally ending it and eating it.

With my head full of thoughts I don't actually want to have, I walk home. In the distance, I see red lights. Maybe an ambulance? There are a few older people in the neighborhood after all.

I draw closer and closer. No, not an ambulance. The fire department.

What would they-?

"Oh my fucking god, no," I gasp. They're in front of my apartment complex. "Shit!"

You fucking idiot! You FORGOT the pizza in the oven before you left the house! FUCK! I can't believe how stupid and forgetful I am sometimes. How could I have left that unattended? If that oven caught fire, I will kick myself.

I almost run up to the first firefighter I see and ask, "Don't tell me there was a fire in my apartment?! Number 506! I'm Miss Moore."

He gives me a reserved smile. "No, but your neighbor heard the smoke detectors go off and called. You're free to go in. Nothing serious happened. Your insurance should cover any costs that will arise."

Jup, I'm fucked.

I go in. They have already opened all the windows and removed the piece of charcoal that was once pizza from the oven. That's one point for the pizza. My oven looks like it needs some serious help after that.

"Miss, we need all your contact information," the tallest of the firefighters in the room lets me know. "We will have to send you a bill for the lock we had to repair after we forced our way in here."

"Uh, okay." My brain can't handle all of this. I'm mad at myself. This could have been avoided.

I dig out a pen and paper and when I'm done writing what he needs down, I hand it to him. "Anything else?"

"Don't leave your food, in either the oven or on the stove unattended in the future."

I wanna rip his spine out. That's OBVIOUS. And I know it. I hate that I know it. I hate that I know that this whole thing is my fault. "Yes, thank you for the advice," I speak flatly, despite the rage I feel.

After that, they just leave. I feel way too much at once right now. It makes me want to get a knife from the kitchen. I slump down onto the sofa.

That was the last pizza, wasn't it? I'm more hungry than when I left the house. Now I have to make due with bread. The prospect doesn't amuse me. I have half a mind to go to the diner and eat there. Before I do that though, I will check my dresser for what I'm going to wear tomorrow.

And so I do. I find a pair of black, ripped jeans and place the other white tank top that I stole tonight next to it.

Do I really want to go to the diner though? Do I really want to take another walk tonight? I actually don't. Which brings me back to the kitchen to check the fridge.

Nothing in it that I want. Seems like I'm not hungry enough after all. I've been at a point in my life where I'd have eaten leftovers out of a garbage container if it had come to it.

I set the alarm on my phone, go to take a shower and call it a night. Before I slip to sleep my mind comes up with horrible scenarios that could happen tomorrow. All the things that could go wrong. I just know I'll sleep like shit. I do.