Anya walked slowly through the streets, pulling her coat closer towards her. She walked past a bar with drunken men holding half-empty absthine glasses in her hand. The men hollered at her, and Anya's cheeks turned red.
Anya put her hand up to her blushing cheeks. She hated when they did that. She spotted the alleyway that she had been directed to.
Anya was on her own in Paris, hopeful for an enchanting life with parties, love, drunken nights, pretty dresses and diamonds. She could perhaps become an actress. Something a poor girl could only dream about. She shared her dreams with a friend of hers who knew someone who could make those dreams come true.
Harold Zidler was his name. He used to be famous at the Moulin Rouge, the one place of glamour. Anya could only dream of going to the Moulin Rouge. But it had been shut down. For what reason, she did not know.
Anya's coat was torn, and didn't warm her very well. She stopped in front of the alleyway, which was filed with muddy puddles of cold, rainy, Paris water. The rain filled Anya's high heels, which had a big gaping hole, and filled into her thin stockings.
She leaned down to pull her shoe tighter, and gasped suddenly. She could see a faint shadow. A man was standing there.
"Hello, poppet." A raspy voice said. Smoke slowly circled out of his mouth, as he took the cigarette out of his mouth.
"Hello, sir. My name is Anya. I'm interested in your . . . well your business, sir."
"What for, then?"
"Well . . . all I really want is a good life. A life with parties and glamour. Those say you can provide that."
"How old are you, darling?"
"I just turned eighteen, sir."
"Eighteen, eh? Do you know
what I am? What I do?"
"Not exactly, sir. But I'm willing
to do anything." Anya said.
Anya bit her lip, and looked around nervously. She didn't know what she had gotten herself into.