Disclaimer: I'm oh-ficially disclaimin' any ownership of these here characters. (And thanks ya'll, to errbody who reviewed :D)
A/N: Dark and choppy waters ahead. Beware. Swim at your own risk.
Sookie POV
When I was eight, my parents were killed in a car accident and I went to live with my grandparents. Gramps passed away in his sleep almost a year later. And then it was just Gran and I, the last of the Stackhouses. We were poor, undeniable belonging to the financially lower-class, but so was most of the town of Bon Temps, and consequently our poverty was never something I really noticed.
I went to bed every night with a full stomach and a happy heart. Although I had already learned twice at a young age that nothing was permanent, as I grew into adolescence, time had somehow lulled me into a mistaken sense of security.
Gran was a rock, steady and unchanging as the flow of everyday life rushed past her. What I didn't realize, what we couldn't have known, was that her unwavering strength was gradually wearing her down.
Her first heart attack almost killed her and required a quadruple bypass to clear her main arteries. After that she had a series of small strokes that left her weak and nearly debilitated. We had nothing but basic medical insurance, and the hospital bills were insurmountable. But they had to be paid, as did the mortgage, and the utilities…
So I started waitressing at the local watering hole, but I quickly realized it wasn't anywhere near enough money to cover our expenses. Without Gran's knowledge, I convinced my friend Tara's older sister Mindy to put in a good word for me as a cocktail waitress at the seedy strip club located just outside of the town limits. The owner, Sam, knew my age but he also knew my situation and was willing to look the other way as I worked there. I wasn't only attractive but also younger and cleaner in appearance than the other women, so I made a healthy profit each week.
I could have made better money stripping. Despite being a senior in high school, I was eighteen and legally permitted to remove my clothes for cash. Ironically, I could NOT legally serve alcohol, so it was for less money and at a greater risk that I attempted to retain a semblance of respectability.
Naturally, working every evening left me precious little time for academics and a social life. I did my best to balance schoolwork and workwork, but earning cash had to be the priority.
On the night of my high school prom, when everyone else my age was luxuriating in the relative innocence of their youth and excited about their plans for the future and indulging in the nostalgia of their teen years, I was reluctantly maneuvering my way around inebriated animals only to provide them with items that would encourage their intoxication.
Of course, you'd have never sensed my utter disgust. My smile and flirtatious attitude were always present; I knew exactly where and how my bread was so distastefully buttered, and anyway, I could and would cry as much as I needed to on the drive home. But for now, I was upbeat and casually flattering of my best customers, striking a delicate balance between playful rapport and firm discouragement of physical advances. It was, to put it simply, exhausting.
I never even noticed the quiet man sitting in the corner table, outside of my section. No one could remember seeing him later, after everything had happened, and it was determined that he was just a stranger passing through.
Whoever he was, he ruined my life forever and irrevocably on that night when he raped me.
I had left the club through the back employee entrance after checking out with Sam. Most of the other girls had already left, but I stayed behind to close. I was normally fastidious about leaving with someone else, but on this evening I was exhausted and bitter and uncharacteristically throwing myself a pity-party in lieu of prom, and my feelings made me careless.
I was almost to my old Honda when he came up behind me and I felt the barrel of a gun at my back. He murmured in a deceptively soothing voice that if I wanted to live, I wouldn't make a noise as we walked into the woods beyond the club. Every instinct told me to scream and flee, and he seemed to sense this. The next thing I saw were bright red stars behind my eyes as he knocked me out.
When I awoke, the pain was the only thing that let me know I was alive. And truly, I wanted to be dead. I had only been lying there in the parking lot for about half an hour or so, they told me later, but I swear that it was an eternity before Sam found me, covered in dirt and blood and semen, lying motionless and looking up at the night sky.
At the hospital, I numbly acquiesced to each command given to me by nurses and doctors, but I was unable to speak. If I didn't think, it didn't hurt. The shock wasn't so bad; it was the idea of feeling again that I yearned to suppress. After examining my head injury, they used a rape kit to collect evidence. Once they had completed my physical exam, a detective was allowed to interview me.
The detective was very thorough and gentle with his questioning, but I could offer nothing useful. He did not seem concerned about where I had been or why I was there when the attacked happened, only about my attacker's identity. I experienced my first emotion, oddly one of relief that he wasn't going to blame me for what had happened.
And finally, being forced to relive the incident, feelings of helplessness, anger, and inexplicably, guilt rushed through me in a tidal wave of emotion. I turned quickly and threw up into the bedpan beside me.
Sam was the only person who knew about it, but we never spoke of it. The customers at the club that night were questioned but only given vague details about The Incident. I didn't want to pursue it, anyway. I felt illogically undeserving of justice, and moreover, I was terrified that my grandmother might find out and that the shock would literally kill her. Once the police had eliminated the strip clubs' regulars as suspects, it seemed very likely to me that my attacker was a wanderer and was long gone without any intention of returning.
Although I was supposed to go to therapy or a counselor afterwards, instead I dove straight back into life. It would have been too expensive to pause or to look back. I covered my bruises as best as possible, returned to work after a day off, and never mentioned anything about it to Gran.
Meanwhile, her body had been inflicting relentless suffering and pain on her, and mercifully she passed away after living just long enough to see me with my high school diploma. The day after she was buried, I officially quit my job at the strip club, placed the house on the market, and left town. All of the debts were settled over time, and I never saw Bon Temps or any of its citizens again.
New York City was my ultimate destination. It was the only place large enough for a rebirth, for me to rise from the ashes. I had successfully managed to block The Incident from my consciousness, but each night without fail, I had a nightmare in which I felt the barrel at my back, I heard his low voice, and I screamed.
When I arrived in the Big Apple, I took whatever jobs I could find. I stayed in a tiny apartment with two roommates and lived very frugally for the first few months before the house in Bon Temps was sold. One of my roomies, Amelia, became a very good friend. The only thing we had in common was our Southern roots, but Amelia had come from a privileged life to which she could always return if she wasn't able to succeed in the city. I had never spoken of the attack to her or anyone, but on the rare occasions I was unable to stifle the scream from my nightmares, she was always a supportive shoulder while still being respectful of my privacy.
It wasn't until I met Claudine at a gallery opening that I dared to consider real ambitions for myself. She seemed to tower over everyone, a glowing, glossy six-foot tall glamazon in fabulous stilettos and an expensive designer dress with an infectious, tinkling laugh. I was working for a catering company and serving drinks at the party when I noticed her. Although the room was filled with successful gorgeous people, Claudine had a certain je ne sais quoi that couldn't be bought or manufactured, not that it had stopped many of her envious partygoers from trying to emulate it. I tried not to stare, but after an hour or so of being unable to ignore her, she happened to catch my eye. Far from being annoyed that I had presumed to watch her instead of continuing to blandly facilitate the event, she studied me carefully for a moment and smiled. I remember wondering if she was a lesbian, (which, after growing up in Bon Temps was still a relatively new idea to me), but it seemed at the time more like an assessment than a flirtatious glance.
"Danke schön, Christoph, everything was absolutely superb," Claudine acknowledged the caterer graciously as she moved past him towards me.
I continued to pack up as she spoke.
"May I help you with something, darling?"
This caused me to stop and falter slightly. Instinctively, I narrowed my gaze distrustfully and stepped back from my bag.
"Oh my, my. Someone's a nervous Nellie," she murmured softly. I stubbornly met her eyes and she looked back unflinchingly.
"I'm Claudine, but it seems you already knew that. I would ask what's kept you so captivated by me, but I can't pretend to be unaware of my charms." She smiled gently and I relaxed a smidge.
"How…" my voice cracked so I cleared my throat awkwardly. "May I ask what you do here in the city?"
Her smile broadened and she asked for my name. She tried it once or twice, alternating the pronunciation slightly until she was comfortable with it.
"Well Sookie, darling, I own a very lucrative and successful business venture." She raised one eyebrow and leaned towards me conspiratorially as she continued in a staged whisper.
"An escort service."
Well. Huh. Was she serious?
She laughed lightly at my ill-concealed reaction. "Yes, it took a me a little while to become accustomed to it as well, but frankly, I couldn't imagine doing anything else. My company operates efficiently and safely, and we provide valuable service to some very powerful clients. Men and women." She waggled her eyebrows a little, and I laughed, caught off-guard by the surprisingly coarse gesture coming from such a polished woman.
She handed me a card. "I'd like for you to consider applying to work for us. And before you rush to the conclusion that you're being insulted, think it over. Contact me when you're ready to make some real money." I blushed when I took into account what I was wearing, a stained, sweaty, cheap white-collared shirt and faded black pants.
I knew there was nothing wrong with hard work and getting my hands dirty but suddenly, standing next to well-groomed Claudine, I felt so tired. I was sick of it, struggling to survive with my dignity intact, struggling to survive period. It had cost me so much already and no matter how hard I worked, it seemed I was always found wanting. I deserved more.
After wordlessly accepting Claudine's card, I watched her turn and glide away.
It might have been the unlikeliest thing in the world, that a rape victim would voluntarily succumb to lifestyle requiring her to trade her body for money. But my twisted logic was that if I treated sex as a commodity, it could be something common and ordinary. I could pretend that I hadn't lost anything important during The Incident.
I could take control, for once.
I came to the realization that ultimately, it's not about right, it's not about wrong.
It's about power.
And now, finally, I had the power.
It took about three months for Claudine to vet me via background check and for me to finish training. We were prepared for any situation, social or sexual, and were also required to undergo multiple physical exams and to undergo rigorous self-defense courses before we could officially begin working. She had been absolutely truthful in describing her company as safe and efficient.
Slowly, I began accruing regular clients. After a few months, I was invited out regularly as a social escort to various functions around NYC. The sexual encounters were actually a minimal part of work; in six months, I had amazingly only had the same number of intimate partners. Most of the older men especially were only looking for eye candy to flash at an event, and some clients were so narcissistic that I doubted anything could satisfy them sexually except watching themselves, alone, in a mirror.
With Claudine's help, I seemed to have discovered a natural affinity for the job; I was charming, vivacious, tactful and, after a company-initiated make-over, highly attractive and polished. My wardrobe grew and so did my savings account. Finally I had decided to move to a larger apartment with a fellow escort. Although I missed seeing Amelia everyday, she understood why I needed to leave, part of which was because she had not been entirely supportive of my new career. She had a right to object to my profession, but that judgment had definitely driven a wedge between us. Having never truly been without, and not knowing the entirety of my history, she couldn't comprehend what had driven me to…well, to prostitution. So we parted uneasily but without animosity.
As soon as I arrived at the new apartment, I stopped to marvel at its size and richly furnished rooms. It was 2 bedroom/1 bathroom condo on the Upper East Side, and it seemed practically like a mansion to me. Pam greeted me with an excited smile, her pale blue eyes flashing.
"Miss Sooh-kay, I doo deh-clahh, if this just ain't the fanciest thang I've evah seeeeeyeen…" she fawned over me with a poorly exaggerated Southern accent. Pam was from the Mid-West and had no discernable accent, and there was something about mine that just drove her to hilarious distraction. At first I thought she was catty, but as we became closer, I realized that she mocked everything and everyone, with the exceptions of clients, naturally. Her wit and extroverted personality had proven to be the catalyst to her success in the business, and I learned through experience that it was much better to have her on your side than against you.
Settled in my new place with all of my new things, with my new future and so many possibilities ahead of me, I thought I should feel content. To some extent, I was. But it still wasn't enough. There was a hole in the world; stuff and things and money couldn't fill it, and to be honest, I couldn't conceive that there was anything that could make me complete again.
But I'd rather be damaged goods living in luxury than damaged goods living in poverty.
It wasn't until I met Eric that I began to doubt.
Coming up: Eric's backstory. Or backside. When he meets up with Sookie again. Not really sure, just waiting for the creative juices to flooooooooooow :)