"It's… too… tight…"
Her voice was strained, chest pinched. Nausea made her swallow hard between shallow breaths as sweat dotted her brow and made her lazy curls of chestnut tinted hair stick to the nape of her exposed neck. Her head swam with wave after wave of torrential lightheadedness. Blinking only made it worse; forced her to choose between vertigo drenched darkness or the much too bright candle-lit antechamber with its flickering dolled up faces. The room spun uncontrollably, and the floor lurched beneath her bare feet. The walls shivered and shook with each unsteady heartbeat.
She knew it was her imagination. That it was the sheer lack of breathable air. But that knowledge helped little to calm her rolling stomach. She didn't want to do this. Not again. Hacking off her left hand seemed preferable to… this.
She knew bloody well that it was more than just the constricting corset that made her want to vomit all over the freshly polished oak floor boards. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have to wear elegant silk of vibrant hues with her breasts thrust forward simply to attract the attention of the men in the foyer downstairs. Shouldn't have to pull her hair up and coerce it back with a hundred pricking pins to draw eyes to the graceful slope of her neck. Shouldn't have to be taken away to some shadowy din hole to be toyed with like someone's personal plaything, her rights stripped away so much that she wasn't even certain if she was a person anymore. There was a fine line between 'shouldn't' and 'have to', though. She had lost sight of it months ago. Everyone 'employed' here had.
"They don't pay us to breathe, Miss McClellin," came Madam Louis' bitter response, spoken through perfect, cherry colored lips. The woman reeked of lavender oil and honeysuckle, her mere presence enough to permeate the air around her with the heady scent. Under normal circumstances, it would not have been described as entirely unpleasant. At that moment, however, it was far too strong for her dizzied mind. Dear lord, please go suffocate someone else.
Her eyes locked with another woman's. They shared a brief distressed expression. Both knew that this was unjust, immoral, perverse, and vile beyond anything imaginable. But… Both knew there was little they could do, and thus both were resigned to their cruel fate. It was utterly frightening how quickly the brain had become accustomed to living in hell. How they adjusted to preserve their own sanity. No one tried to fight it any more. No one ran. No one dared to. There were no bars, no shackles… but even a golden cage was still a cage at the end of the day.
The infernal cords were tugged on once more, forcing her to sharply exhale as the last of her pitiful oxygen supply was squeezed from her choked lungs. Her fingers curled around the back of an old chair, chipped nails dug half-moon divots into the intricately designed mahogany wood. Her face screwed up in discomfort, brows kit together and teeth clenched tight in her jaw. She took a few steps to balance herself and snapped her spine straight in a frantic attempt to properly align herself.
"Hold still."
What was the point? It was just more work to take off… rip off… whatever the savage beast that bought her for the night wanted, later… The last man detested the corset, proved it so with the purple blue bruises he drunkenly left on her collarbone with his ringed knuckles when she couldn't rid herself of the garment fast enough for his esteemed liking. Bruises they so diligently tried to cover up with layer upon layer of thick powder and sticky foundation. Their ache remained. A brutally realistic reminder. Even now.
Sometimes… sometimes she couldn't decide which she disliked more – being smothered or wishing she couldn't breathe at all simply because that signified an end.
"Your face will stick if you keep it like that." Another thin, barely veiled threat. A sharp reminder. A warning above all else. "Wrinkles won't get you work. You know what the Master says."
She briefly considered telling her handler that she cared little if she garnered the eye of the circling predators in the ball room. That perhaps Mathias could possibly consider instead taking a flying leap off the docks along the harbor. Preferably with a rather large stone tied to his leg. And a gag shoved down his throat. It would do the world a whole lot of good. At the very least, she would be happier. It would rid her of his ever-running mouth and give her with a few seconds of blessed quiet.
He wouldn't though. Obviously. But, envisioning it did help. Some.
Alas, and much to her frustration, he was safe. Tucked away deep within the confines of his lavish manor as half-dressed women draped themselves over his shoulders and constantly filled his never empty wine glass. It was all for show, to entertain the masses as he chummed up to the wealthy, deplorable elites. He flaunted his girls in their frills and bows, low scooping neck lines and petite cinched waists. He pawned them off like meat from a butcher, and then lived off their suffering, reaped in the riches while they warmed beds behind closed doors.
That's what this was all about after all, wasn't it? Money?
It was certainly what got her into this mess. Or, well, the lack thereof, followed by a desperate ploy to make more. Looking back now, she could see how silly she was, how obvious the tells had been, and how stupid she was for not seeing them from the start. He had been all smiles and cheeky bright-eyed grins. So persuasive. What was a few rounds of poker? Only a dollar or two. No harm in that. But the bets got larger as the drinks kept getting poured. Her 'winning' streak faltered. It didn't take much. A couple of bad hands; the cards that were in her favor at the beginning now plotted her gradual demise, but she was too drunk to give notice. Course, it wasn't until later that she found that the deck was stacked against her and the man she was playing had paid the dealer off.
Idiot.
"Stand up."
She did as she was told merely because there was no alternative. Madame Louis wasn't at fault. She was fulfilling her part as a pawn, a mentor of the damned and downtrodden. 'Bestowing the knowledge necessary to turn uncivilized wenches into proper tools' as Mathias would phrase it.
It was pathetic that she had fallen for his schemes, his sharp tongue, and cleverly worded wit.
What was even more frightening was how some of the girls believed him still. Even after everything.
Perhaps though, they knew better but acted the fool because resisting was so much worse.
The prospect was interrupted when a snug fitting gown, if it could be called as such with how little fabric it contained, was tugged over her head. The chiffon material billowed at her hips to accentuate them further; the lace and silk hugged her flat stomach and exposed the soft pale skin of her mid to upper back and shoulders. It was revealing. Scandalously so.
Mother would have fainted at the mere sight of the dress. Father would have fumed red with puffs of smoke billowing from his ears.
But… they weren't here. They weren't coming to save her either. No one even knew where she was.
A handkerchief skimmed along her neck and forehead, her handler tutting away as she dabbed at the stubborn beads of sweat that resided there. "Get yourself together. Tonight is one of the largest galas we have ever been gifted the opportunity to be part of. Do not ruin it for us with your nerve induced perspiration, Miss McClellin." The Madam's steely gaze surveyed the room, meeting the eyes of each and every woman present. "The same goes for all of you. If we do this right, we may even be rewarded, and we all know how wonderful that would be."
She exhaled through her pursed lips, refrained from rolling her eyes.
"Yes ma'am," they all replied in practiced unison.
She wanted to do it though, wreck the evening that is. She wanted to kick and scream, to beg Pete at the door to allow her to stay back, just this once. To cause a scene so the bastards downstairs would turn their nose up at her, thus preventing her from being coaxed away like a frightened lamb into the den of a hungry wolf. She wanted to dig her nails into their prying eyes so they couldn't gawk at her, to pull out hunks of their pomade hair as they leaned hungrily over her pinned body. To bash their pristine faces against the intricately designed headboard as they unzipped their trousers so hard that their nose broke and blood gushed down their chin.
She wanted to break their fingers, so they could never lay a hand on any of them ever again.
The sting of a sharp blade against her thigh stilled her warring thoughts.
Her little secret. Her salvation.
No, she couldn't fight back. Not right now. Not when she had worked so hard for this evening. She had to bide her time. Have patience. Everything was in place. Everything was ready. As she stood to follow the others with her chin tucked just so and her hands clasped together in front of her, she couldn't help the small barely visible smile that graced her painted lips.