The door swings opens and a man steps inside. He is youngish, in his 20's she guesses, but his eyes are hardened by many years of getting his every want. It is not that he is cold or cruel, merely disenchanted. She tosses her hair back and smiles seductively. If her mother could do it, then she can do it. He doesn't ask for her name, and she doesn't offer it. Instead he comes close to her, admiring her body in the silk dress cut to emphasize her young charms.
She whispers some throaty nonsense meant to please him, not even listening to herself. He smiles and kisses her hard. It is a kiss of possession. She forces herself to stay relaxed, to maintain her come-hither manner as his hand slides underneath her skirts. Her dress rustles sullenly as it slips to the floor. She feels numb, as though she is another person watching herself sink onto the bed as is expected, watching him lean over her, touching and kissing and pushing. He mistakes the fear in her wide eyes for excitement.
"Please, gently," she whispers. He doesn't hear, or doesn't care. She bites her lip as the sharp pain of lost virginity flares inside of her, turning her cry of pain into a sigh of passion. Her first lesson in faking it.
Later he lies back on the soft bed, his desire sated. Thoughts run through her mind wildly. All she can think of is what she has lost tonight. She is just another object, just another petty pleasure to be used and discarded. When he leaves, she sits up and smiles coyly, clutching the bed sheets to her chest. She has a duty. She accepted it when it came to her and now it must be fulfilled. "Come back soon, darling," she says. He makes some reply - she doesn't care to hear it - and shuts the door behind him.
She hooks her legs over the edge of the bed, swaying only a little when she stands. She yanks her dress back on resolutely. She can do this. She can bear it. One glance at the sheets stained with blood is enough to make her crumble. She slumps against the wall, sliding down it to sit on the floor, and cries for her lost innocence.
Sway awakes gasping for air, her eyes wide. She presses her hands to her temples, trying to force back the memory of her time at the Black Rose. The nightmare comes occasionally; she should be able to deal with it by now.
Sway gropes desperately for her whiskey bottle, her escape. Her knuckles are white where she grips the bottle. She takes a drag from it, then tosses it among her rumpled bed sheets. The fiery liquid stifles her pain. She walks to the window and eases it open with hands that shake just slightly. It creaks faintly in protest. She slips through the window like a ghost and fades into the silver fog. The drifting pearly mist softens the city. The moonlight glows in the air, transforming dirt and ash to alluring shadow.
Sway strolls through the desolate, shrouded streets, heedless of the damp that creeps into her clothes. It is unbelievably lonely. The city appears beautiful in a queer, cold way, with its dirt and refuse smoothed over and hidden from sight yet always there. It's times like this that Sway feels an affinity for Manhattan; other times she would like nothing more than to get away.