My mother gave me her most cherished possession when I was five. It was the necklace my father had bought for her when he proposed. He couldn't afford a ring, too expensive, but a simple silver chain with a dainty, silver heart dangling from it was perfect. It was plain but beautiful and she wore it every day. It clung to her heaving chest as she labored to keep a healthy, happy child from falling into the poverty-stricken streets.
When she began to feel Death follow her in the shade of the day and the shadows of the evening, she laid down in her uncomfortable bed. This was the same mattress she had had for several decades. The bed frame was as old and brittle as she had become. She never complained about the ridges of the wooden planks supporting the mattress digging into her frail bones. She never complained about the musty stench of the mat. She never complained, period. This was the bed she was raised in. She made it, and she was prepared to lie down in it for the last time.
Lying there on that rickety, stale resting place (and final resting place), she fiddled with the clasp of her beloved necklace and bestowed it upon me. This was the first piece of jewelry I ever owned. And at once I knew I wanted more. I wanted all the jewelry my mother could never afford, and I wanted to wear it in her honor. It began as a hobby then turned into a strange obsession. Strange mostly because I didn't entirely care for my mom as I should have. Maybe it was guilt that spurred me to buy these fancy talismans for a dead guardian I couldn't bear to love, for she left me in the end like everyone else in my life and the hurt was too much, so I spared myself this time—spared myself by not giving a shit.
When what little money she left me ran dry, I became a petty thief. I don't wish that lame ass squalor on anyone. I needed a new profession quick. I managed to make a decent acquaintance who offered me a job at a tavern. I served drinks to the customers and cleaned there overnight rooms. I was known fairly well amongst the bar maids, a playful tiger toying with the graceful antelope. And there I found my second obsession: women. Because holy shit, there is nothing like a pair of flawless fun bags being shoved into your face as an exquisite heat embraced your entirety. I was enticed into the vivid succor of womanhood.
This tavern taught me much. I learned a flair for the dramatics, cursing, and how to satisfy any lovely lady willing to drift into my web of sweat, sex, and passion. Someone saw something in myself that I had yet to discover, but the answer was so obvious: I am a great lover. So yeah, I became a whore. Then a prostitute. And now I am a courtesan. The difference between each title is the pay. Atros and the Teahouse treats me fucking well. I wouldn't ever even suggest I am grateful to Atros, but in my heart of corrupted hearts, I am. I am payed to screw. I get tangled with women and tangled with all the jewelry I buy from my hard earned cash, pun intended. How could I not be grateful? Every quivering gasp and flashy new earring is something I cherish, as my mother cherished her necklace.
Is this any good? I am rusty and can't tell. I want to write more, incorporating Rhys and Axis' relationship, and other Teahouse characters, but if this isn't worth it then I'll start over. It would become rated M quickly. I was going for a sentimental, romance that still involves the fun spirit of the comic.
Thanks for any feedback! These characters belong to Emirain, the creators of the Teahouse comic.