A/N: I have returned.
DISCLAIMER: I own only my characters.
Monday
February, 2015
I stared at the clock. 3:59 A.M.
The numbers slowly switched to 4:00 A.M. The buzzer sounded in a far off distance, telling me to get out of bed or face the consequences.
I threw on the wrinkled clothes that slept on the floor, stuffed my feet into old sneakers, and tip toed downstairs.
My day is the same every day. At precisely 4:10 A.M. I eat a piece of stale toast. No butter. I won't eat anything more.
At 4:15 A.M. I empty the chimney of the night's contents. I know what's in there. I listen to it all night long.
At 4:20 A.M. I started the fire. It is used for the winter. Windows are used for the summer.
The bread man arrives at exactly 4:30 A.M. every morning. It's my job to oversee the unloading of the bread, pay the guy, and then put the bread away.
At 5:00 A.M. I turn on the lights. I turn the stoves, ovens, everything on so the short order chef (that was he demands to be called) won't complain when he arrives for work.
At 5:25 A.M. I turn on the televisions in the bar.
At 5:30 A.M. Lou's Place is officially opened for business.
"What can I get you sugar?"
The bar is busy with patrons this morning. Mostly corporate men in cheap business suits trying to catch a glimpse of Amber, the waitress, in her skin tight uniform with her bosom bursting and her red hair screaming.
Amber is as natural as crystal meth. She arrived in Chicago six months ago to "make it" in show business (why Chicago I'll never know). After five months of nothing, she arrived on Lou's doorstep, starving and begging for a job.
She was an instant hit with the male customers and became a freak sideshow for the women that come in here. She talked one guy into buying her a new set of breasts and another one is paying her rent in an apartment over on 53rd street.
I hear the area is full of prostitutes.
She throws her head back as she gawks at some joke one of the male patrons makes as he pitifully flirts with her. She writes her phone number on the order tab with those long, red nails.
She ignores me to the best of her ability. She does whisper behind my back as does Shep.
Shep is a world renowned chef...in his own mind. He lost out at some cooking contest in Arkansas some years back and migrated to Chicago because of embarrassment. His hair is black and greasy. He has more hair coming out of his shirt than he does under his chef hat.
He arrived right before Amber did, insisting to be called Chef instead of Shep. He and Amber make my life a living hell.
Shep was currently glaring at Amber through the peek-a-boo window he used to slide food out for the customers.
"Take this to table 7 and hurry your anorexic ass up" he barked "there are dishes in here that need to be washed."
I juggled the plates and scrambled to table 7. I wasn't noticed as I placed the food in front of the male patrons who were too busy discussing what they would do to Amber's boobs.
I scurried back to the kitchen to do the dishes and my entertainment is Shep's constant muttering of "Amber this and Amber that" while abusing the omelets on the grill. Shep is obsessed with Amber, in a homicidal way.
I hear Amber's heels clicking on the linoleum floor as she throws dishes into the full sink, soaking me with dishwashing liquid.
"Dumb fucking retard not doing her fucking job." Amber screeches as her clicking heels take her out of the kitchen.
That's my nickname. Retard.
I hear Amber's sweet voice echo through the peak-a-boo window and Shep slams his fist on the grill, spilling wet egg onto the floor.
Burning flesh fills the air as Shep stomps towards me.
"Look what you fucking did retard!" Shep's face is as red as his hand. He takes a pot of boiling water and flings it at me. My left hand catches the most of the hot water. I flinch in pain as the clicking heels come running in again.
"What the fuck?!" Amber screeches. She looks at me, holding my hand, writhing in pain on the floor and then at Shep, who is wide eyed.
There is a click at the back door. Amber reaches for the pot and throws it in the sink. She and Shep kneel next to me, feigning fear, as Lou steps inside.
They give him their version of the events.
Lou took me to the hospital to get my hand bandaged. Amber and Shep swore up and down they can handle the bar while Lou and I are away.
Lou is quiet on the way to the hospital. I ride silently, my hand wrapped in Lou's scarf. The emergency room is quiet. The snow keeps everyone at bay.
A nurse leads me into an examination room with Lou in tow. I tell her the same version of events that Amber shrieked to Lou earlier.
She unwraps my hand and looks at it. The doctor arrives, all smiles. She examines my hands and asks me if I can feel it when she pinches my fingertips.
No.
She says something to Lou about second degree burns that may scar. She tells the nurse to wrap my hand and hands me a prescription for an ointment. She says to apply the ointment four times a day and to change the bandages three times a day. She then says to see my primary care doctor in one week.
I nod my head.
The nurse does what she is supposed to do and hands me a goody bag. Lou pays the bill and we're out of the hospital in an hour.
It is noon. Lou says something about lunch. I stare straight ahead out the windshield into the winter wasteland.
We stop at some corner café and have lunch. Lou orders the lunch special. I order a cup of soup. I finish the soup because Lou is watching. He pays the bill and we arrive back at the bar much too soon.
The morning crowd is gone and the lunch crowd has taken their place. Same people, same food, same snarky remarks.
Amber feigns sympathy as Lou and I enter the bar. She promises to bring me something later. Lou sends me back to my room for the afternoon. He takes his place behind the bar as I trudge upstairs.
My room is the tiny attic above the bar. Old, ratty curtains hang over the window.
To the left is my bed, a single. An old, gray fitted sheet clings to the mattress. I have an old quilt and one pillow for bed decoration.
On the wall diagonal from my bed, I have a partially broken mirror that shows me only my face. I have a small empty dresser underneath it. My hair brush sits on top.
On the opposite wall, a rickety chair sits in the corner, covered in dust; a small closet with a thin door holds what little items I have in this world.
Underneath the window is a small night stand. On top is a small lamp, the only light fixture I have in the room. The drawer contains a letter from a woman named Michelle. The cubby hole is empty.
I awake as the sun sets into the earth. I rush downstairs to find the bar full of the regular crowd. Amber ran off with some guy when her shift ended. Shep is gone.
I saw the cold sore on the guy's lip this morning.
Shep left the kitchen spotless. The only time he does that is when he's afraid Lou is onto to him for abusing me.
I serve drink orders, clean tables, and wash glasses. I sweep the floors, do the day's laundry, and clean the furniture.
By midnight the bar is empty. Lou is counting the money and I am mopping the floor. He tells me goodnight as I walk upstairs to my tiny room. He shuts off the light. I hear the door click.
I throw my wrinkled clothes on the dirty floor. I find an old, smelling night gown underneath the bed and shrug into it. I gingerly lay down in the bed, cradling my burned hand.
I roll on my side and wait for the bright, red numbers to roll over again to begin a new day.
A/N: Reviews please!