American Geisha

Chapter 1: When the Phone Rang

When the phone rang, I imagined a job less explicit.

The voice on the other end was gentle. Amicable. It introduced me to the world I was about to enter as if it were something simple. It wasn’t. The instructions were vague but well understood—and I agreed without hesitation.

I had grazed this life once before, but never fell in. Not completely. Back then, I saw something beautiful. So beautiful it drove away all the darkness I was born with. But like everything else in my life, that light left. Or maybe I let it go. Maybe it was for the best. There’s a level of filth no light can clean.

He’ll be better off without me.

Before I said yes to Madame, I thought of him. I wondered—what would he think of this version of me? But then I remembered. He walked away. Refused to speak to me. Pretended I didn’t exist. So what would he care now?

Still, I didn’t have time to dwell.

A friend of mine overheard the call. She had a lot to say.

⸻

My first gig left me with more questions than answers. I held an empty Solander of them—no catalogued truths, only whispers. The only clear instructions: Be discreet. Be professional.

My boots struck the concrete, firm and steady. The city didn’t blink as I walked through her veins to my first client. Madame had given me a name and a room number. That was it.

Luck got me through the lobby. No keycard, just timing. A delivery guy held the door too long and I slipped past.

Inside was a haze, smoke, and over-glamor. Laughter floated above the chandeliers, and everything was disorienting. I felt like a shadow among shadows.

Eventually, I found him.

He wasn’t what I expected. Not some sleazy pig or grunting animal. No, he was adorable. A businessman. Well-mannered. Gentle. Kind. He looked at me like I was something fragile and rare. As I let my coat fall, he stood to hang it with care.

I set my bag down. When I looked up, he was already bare—bashful, yes, but ready.

The money was in a paper cup on the counter, like Madame said. Always collect it first.

He asked for the basics. Front, back, then front again.

So I followed my paid instructions.

During the massage, our bodies moved like dancers locked in slow rhythm. His skin warmed beneath mine. He liked kisses. He smiled when I brushed my lips along his spine. This married man was lonely. That much was clear.

And me? I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I just moved.

A humble service for a man ignored by everyone else in his life.

His toes curled. My name escaped his mouth. He reached happiness. I wiped him down with a warm towel and offered a gentle kiss on his shoulder.

He beamed sweet and disarming.

He debated asking me to stay longer but settled on sleep after his long flight. Before I left, he complimented me. Told me I could be a model.

If only he knew how often I’ve failed at even that.

“Goodnight, Jessica,” he whispered. “Be safe, always.”

I nodded and left into the witching hour.

The streets were quieter now, but the cold bit deep.

Morning came and the soul inside me stayed hollow.

It was a slow week, Madame said. Everyone was distracted by the holidays. That made sense. Married men suddenly remembered they had homes to go to. Women to pretend to love.

I waited. And while I waited, I roamed.

The streets were damp. The wind, sharp. And I was invisible again.

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Chapter 2: The Friend’s Warnings

It was nearly midnight when the phone rang again. A masseuse was needed—with a “happy smile” ending, as Madame put it.

I arrived early. A delivery guy held the door too long and I snuck in without a second thought. I climbed the stairs to avoid neighbors or nosy guests. Nine floors up, my thighs were burning.

Two shoes sat outside his door tidy, side by side. Clean. Probably Asian. Maybe like me.

I called Madame to confirm, but he lied. Told her he wasn’t home. I could hear him through the door.

He answered anyway.

He’d taken a shower. More considerate than half the boyfriends I’ve had. He offered me water and hopped into bed without fanfare.

His skin was smooth, lightly toned, and he had the scent of someone who didn’t cook much. He was a talker, this one. Talked more than expected for someone requesting submission. But I had my ways. I silenced him with touch.

I wore fishnets and nothing else for flair. I showed off my flexibility as I worked him over, letting my hands play to the rhythm of the trance music he’d queued.

He’d requested subtle dominance but what he really wanted was to be teased.

Massage between the thighs. Don’t touch the testicles—just get close enough. The moans were breathy, physical. He giggled once. That’s when I knew I had him.

He came with a growl. Low and deep.

I asked for permission to clean him, like I always do. He let me. I warmed the towel, wiped him down carefully. He seemed genuinely impressed by how gentle and precise I was—especially with the shaft and tip.

And as I cleaned, I thought of my ex-husband.

He would’ve preferred this version of me docile and obedient.

He would’ve smiled while I submitted.

But when you rape your wife, that right is revoked.

No, I don’t submit. Not to lovers. Not to anyone.

We are equals—or nothing.

He was finished early and grinning, his eyes narrowing to lines. He looked blissfully happy. He began rambling about a tea his friend gave him, something he didn’t know how to brew. He didn’t cook. Only ate out. Enjoyed coffee too.

I had ten minutes left and was fully dressed. I offered to make the tea, if he wanted.

He almost said yes but decided it was too much trouble.

So I grabbed my coat and left. Another night over. Another hour served. Another smile that meant nothing.

I spent the rest of the night roaming, looking for a café that would stay open long enough for me to breathe. My feet were numb, my fingers colder. Before the last fifteen minutes of my shift, Madame finally told me to go home.

I was exhausted. And I missed my bed.

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These secret cravings of mine? They always led me to lonely men.

Men with full pockets who wanted to be touched and adored. Who needed to feel special, even if only for the hour. Some called back. Some didn’t.

The days passed. I hadn’t seen the sun in what felt like forever.

And honestly? I didn’t miss it.

There’s something honest about the dark. It doesn’t pretend to love you.

It’s not always evil. Just misunderstood.

⸻

It was already December, and the air turned brutal. I waited in the cold between calls while men everywhere played house with the women they supposedly loved. Holidays turned them into better liars.

I think everyone engages in paid affection in one way or another.

Some use words. Some use rings. Some just prefer cash.

Loyalty’s a myth.

No wonder I’ve never trusted humans.

We’re flawed. Narcissistic. Misfits pretending our secrets are buried.

But someone always knows.

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Chapter 3: The Threat

The phone rang again. Another cold night, another request.

Madame’s voice came through fast and sharp:

“Jessie, how quickly can you get to this address?”

I was already out, too far for comfort, but I made a decent judgment call. I fled my neighborhood during death’s favorite hours—the kind of time where only shadows roam.

I was almost there when the gentleman began making threats to cancel.

I needed this money.

If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing this job so soullessly.

When I arrived, a doorman let me in. The client buzzed me up. As I began to unbutton my coat—to reveal the goods he expected—I saw him.

He was tall, slouched, and drooling at the mouth like a broken marionette. Tweed jacket, glazed eyes. He looked me over like I was expired meat.

“You made me wait. Fuck you,” he spat and slammed the door.

The wall trembled from the force.

I stood in the hallway, stunned but not surprised.

I called Madame immediately.

She was furious…but not at me. At him.

By the next hour, she’d had him blacklisted not just from her girls, but from everyone in the business. His number. His address. His face. All distributed.

That’s what happens when you cross Madame.

She apologized and tried to find me another booking, but there were no more calls that night. The sun was rising. My body ached. My bones were tired. Christmas was two weeks away, and all I could think about was my next client—and how to be prettier, smarter, more.

If I’m going to do this job, I might as well do it well. Right?

⸻

When I got home, I collapsed into my bed. Missed the sunlight. Again.

I slept until the middle of the day when I was jolted awake…by her.

My friend. The one who overheard me getting hired. The one who had let herself in, uninvited.

She was ranting. “Maybe you should wait just a little before taking more jobs.” She had hope in her voice, like this ten-year struggle of mine would just end with a snap of her fingers. I wondered what euphoric drink she had at her place that made her so delusional.

I tried explaining. I didn’t feel anything about the job. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It just was.

A method to keep the leaking roof over my head. A way to spend another night with mice in the walls and somber gunshots outside my window.

At least for one hour, these men pretend I’m all that exists. For a moment, I’m not who I am but a woman loved. Not that I’ve ever fancied the concept of love.

“I don’t believe love exists,” I told her.

“People care only about themselves. They throw each other away faster than garbage. And I’m just the kind of trash they leave behind.”

My friend stopped yapping. She finally noticed I didn’t care. And so she made a threat.

“I’ll tell him,” she said. “I’ll tell the one you don’t want to know.”

The one I never admitted I loved. The one who saw too much. I couldn’t help but laugh at her audacity. Her foolish idea that he would even give a shit.

She stormed out eventually. But I knew she wouldn’t do it. She’s never crossed me not in fifteen years. She’s all bark. No bite.

A yapper. Not a fighter. Still… that bug she planted in my ear? It started buzzing. Loud.

I knew he didn’t care. Still, I’d rather him know nothing about me. There’s no reason for him to know what I’ve become. And yet, her threat stuck to me like cigarette ash.

Why was I the terrible one for surviving a collapsed economy?

Why was I the villain for doing what I had to do, when the rich got richer and the poor ate each other?

I had walked for hours applying to every job. Knees aching. Resume in hand. All I got were rejections. “We’re looking in a different direction.”

I was educated. Not by paper, maybe. But by grit. By fire. By necessity. That’s never been good enough. My last job? I was too good. Exposed too much. Stepped on the wrong toes. They slashed my pay to minimum wage without a word. And just like that, my full fridge emptied again.

I don’t have the luxury of turning my nose up at work.

Dreams don’t pay rent.

And hope doesn’t fill my stomach.

Not anymore.

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Chapter 4: Birthday Silence

The phone rang. Another client was requesting me this time, one with a beard and a taste for domination.

He worked for some company, and I could tell he’d been a nerd in his younger years. His body type reminded me of someone I tried hard to forget. And just like that, my friend’s voice echoed in my head.

She threatened to tell him. He wouldn’t want you doing this. But he’s long gone. What does it matter?

My client looked at me like he wasn’t sure I was real. “You’re more beautiful than I expected,” he said.

I thanked him, even as my stomach turned.

He needed me to take control. To want him.

So I played the role.

I told him to undress. His face lit up. Like that alone made his day.

So simple.

Men—promiscuous people in general—just want to be seen. Wanted. Dominated or adored.

But the pot can’t call the kettle black, right?

⸻

My fingers explored his back, tension thick across his shoulders. He responded eagerly to my outfit, my hands, my voice. Tried to get frisky. But I wasn’t submissive tonight.

When he pushed, I pushed harder. His resistance excited him. He admitted he liked switching roles. So I slipped into the performance and cuffed myself for him. His lips traced up my calves. I looked out the hotel window at the glittering skyline. The sheets were warmer than the night wind clawing at the glass.

When I looked back at him, he was begging. “I must have you.”

And all I could think was they always say that.

To every woman. Every time.

He placed his hands lightly around my throat and kept asking if I was okay.

A kind predator. Or a polite illusion.

He came. And I laid there on the other side of the bed like a dropped glove.

He pulled me into his arms and turned my head to his chest, like we were lovers. Like this meant something.

“I could fall in love with a woman like you,” he said.

I didn’t answer. Just blushed the way I was trained to.

He helped me dress with unexpected care. Held my hand at the door.

“You’re the kind of woman who consumes a man’s mind,” he whispered.

Then the door closed, and I was alone again.

Cold. Exhausted. Heading back to a caged apartment with bars on the windows and cigarette burns on the sheets.

Days passed in a blur. One John after another. Same words. Same hands. Same emptiness.

And my friend?

She kept pushing. Demanding answers.

Where are you going? Who are you seeing? What’s Madame’s number?

“How many clients tonight? Tell me something.”

I didn’t owe her anything.

She was growing frustrated, but I was tired of pretending.

She wanted to know what would happen if someone hurt me. Or worse—if I was killed. I gave her a twisted grin. “You think I’d let someone kill me before I got the chance to do it properly?” Her face turned red with fury.

I thought it was funny.

She didn’t.

She didn’t know how many times I’d already tried.

I never did it for love. Not for attention.

Just exhaustion. Just done.

I’d even started collecting pills. Quiet, slow, certain.

A backup plan I could control.

My joke didn’t land, so I softened.

“I’ll text you. I’ll let you know I’m alive. Just stop nagging.” “Or you could quit,” she pushed. I didn’t respond. She got her answer. Then she played her last card. “What if I told him?” I laughed. “Sure. Humor me.” She stared at me with squinted eyes full of hope and desperation. “If he asked you to stop… would you?” “If he asked,” I admitted, “maybe.”

But we both knew he wouldn’t. He never even cared enough to ask

⸻

Madame texted. A new client wanted two girls—greedy, overconfident. I rolled on my thigh-highs and headed out. At the hotel, he watched me walk like I was made of diamonds. But before anything started, he realized two women were too much.

He wanted the idea of it, not the reality.

He paid me anyway and sent me home.

Madame was irritated, but at least I got something for the trouble.

Seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

There were always more lonely men. Always.

When the shift finally ended, I collapsed into my bed. Bruised feet. Tired bones. A half-dead soul.

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Chapter 5: Pretty Women Never Lasts

Time was slipping past me like steam from a cracked pipe. I wandered the streets until I found a small café tucked in a quiet corner. I tried to enjoy the moment—warm cup in hand, the illusion of peace.

Then I saw them.

A couple, snuggled into each other across the room. Whispering, laughing, legs tangled. The kind of fire people talk about when they say “home.”

I wondered if that was what kept them warm.

And then, just like that, my thoughts drifted to him.

To the moment where I was overwhelmed by happiness so intense, I didn’t know what to do with it. A kind of joy that only came once in a life like mine. I could almost feel his lips again. His warmth. His arms.

But if I’m going to remember that, I need to remember the rest.

That I meant nothing.

That I was used.

Just like always.

He was tired, like I knew he would be. He got what he wanted without paying a cent. And just like the others, he disappeared.

No one—no one—fooled me like he did.

Stupid me.

Stupid, hopeful, vulnerable me.

My phone rang.

Another man, this one requesting domination. The most expensive hotel I’d seen so far. It was in a neighborhood filled with memories I should’ve buried. I stood outside the hotel, nervous. Police presence was thick. My hands shook, but I calmed myself. He arrived to greet me and he smiled. A beautiful, gentle smile that didn’t match his surroundings. I immediately wondered why someone like him would pay for someone like me.

Maybe I’d find out.

The room was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the city like something out of a film. I undressed slowly, dancing between the shadows and light. He kept saying how beautiful I was, over and over. I smiled on cue, like I’d rehearsed it. But the compliments were uncomfortable. They didn’t feel earned.

Beautiful enough to fuck—but never enough to keep.

I’ve never understood the obsession with looks. All it’s ever gotten me was pain. Men started looking too young. Eyes followed me too early. And what did beauty bring me?

Jealousy. Assumptions. Violence.

Nothing real.

He followed my lead, obeying the unspoken rules of dominance. Between breathless exchanges, he opened up. His wife had used him. Manipulated him. Trapped him with a child for the money. She only cared about what he could bring—not who he was.

And yet… he still loved her. There was more honesty in that than I expected.

We talked. We laughed. We matched intellectually. We debated and teased and touched. I don’t share stories with clients. But I did with him. I told him how attention followed me too young, how it scarred me.

A dark storm crossed his face.

“No one has the right to rape anyone,” he said. “Your body is precious. Honestly, I can’t believe someone as beautiful as you is laying beside me.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He stared at my lips. I could feel the moment tighten but I couldn’t kiss him. Not like that. Not in this setting. Kisses are for love, not labor.

He didn’t push. Just stayed close.

We laid there before the city view, skin to skin. His heartbeat played a song I didn’t understand. I reminded myself don’t get comfortable.

This isn’t your world. You don’t belong here. My phone rang. Madame, checking in.

Cinderella had to flee the ball.

He helped me dress. Stared at me like he wanted to remember everything.

“You’re the kind of woman who consumes a man’s mind,” he said.

I’ve heard that before & it sounds like a curse. I smiled. Empty but polite.

Then I left.

The city was colder than ever.

I didn’t want another client that night. I was too full of… something I didn’t recognize. Grief, maybe. Hunger. Not for money but for something I’d never have.

Back at home, I stepped into the rotting familiarity of my reality.

Leaks. Flickering lights. Barred windows.

This was where I’d die.

No matter how beautiful the skyline or how soft the sheets, I’d always return here.

To my cage.

To my truth.

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Chapter 6: The Gift Still Wrapped

The morning came quietly, but not without weight.

Madame called, her voice brighter than usual. “You got a glowing review,” she said. “He said you make a good case not to sleep.” Apparently, he’d stayed up all night thinking about me. A dangerous distraction, he’d called me.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

When was the last time someone said something sweet about me? Really said it like they meant it?

I rummaged through the haze of memory and almost found one name. One moment.

But that one had disappeared, too.

Since I was awake, I got ready for the next shift.

I pulled open my drawer of lingerie small, worn, but neatly arranged. I avoided the newer pieces, especially the ones I had bought while he was still around. Couldn’t bring myself to wear those. Instead, I picked a set that business types always liked. Something that said expensive but not exclusive.

I’ve gotten good at outerwear conservative, classy. But everything drops in two seconds. It’s all part of the theater. You want to do this job well, you learn to act like you care. Even when you don’t.

Especially when you don’t.

I had a full lineup. The bills weren’t going to pay themselves. Thigh-highs strapped. Boots on. I headed into the cold.

When I returned home feet pounding, muscles aching. I peeled everything off and collapsed into the couch. People think sex work isn’t labor. That it doesn’t take stamina.

They’re wrong.

That night’s clients faded together. Same rhythms. Same breath. Same lies whispered into my ear like they were unique.

By the time I was done, I had less questions and more certainty.

I didn’t feel anymore. Not good. Not bad. Not anything.

I didn’t remember the last time I cared. Didn’t remember the last time I was troubled by my own troubles.

I moved through life like an alien pretending to be human, but always watching from the outside. Even when I said “I love you,” I never really meant it not the way others assumed. I was just following cues. Hitting marks. Smiling on beat.

I’ve never trusted people.

Not really.

I don’t remember ever feeling safe.

Even as a child.

I’ve spent most of my life analyzing others breaking them into patterns, categories, psychological trees. It helped me survive. Helped me blend in.

I think I was born disconnected. But once just once I felt alive. It was when I saw him.

A pair of broad shoulders across a room. A moment where everything quieted. Where my blood moved like it remembered something ancient.

But that feeling?

Long gone.

Now, I’m empty. A vast void etched into my bones. Even when I look in the mirror, I see it—the ghost. The absence.

Happiness was a lie I told myself once.

I checked the calendar, trying to distract myself. And that’s when I saw it. His birthday.

Tomorrow.

I stared at the date like it had claws. I knew he didn’t like his birthday. But I did. And I still had his gift. And his Christmas gift. Sitting untouched on my dresser the only clean part of my entire home. I wondered if I should send it.

I wondered if he’d even want to look at my face again.

I doubted it.

He probably had someone new by now. Someone clean. Someone easy to understand.

My friend was still talking. Still hovering. Still dangling his name like bait. I tuned her out. Until she dropped the question.“Would you consider quitting? If you had steady pay?” I didn’t answer. Then she said the thing she knew would cut. “What if I told him? What if he asked you to stop?” I laughed again. Cold. Hollow. “You and I both know he doesn’t care.” She narrowed her eyes as I locked the door behind her.

I called Madame. Told her I was available again.

Tonight’s client had requested two women as if he could handle that. But I knew better. Men like that just wanted the idea. When I got there, I was right. He looked like money and power but not like a man who could go through with it. The moment he saw me, he folded. Said one was enough.

A preview was all he wanted.

He paid, and I was sent home early.

Madame was irritated, but not angry.

At least I didn’t waste the night entirely.

My phone buzzed again. Another client lined up. Another hour to sell.

But all I could think about was the unopened gifts on my dresser.

The ones he’d never receive.

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Chapter 7: Happy Birthday, Nobody

By the time I reached my next destination, I was already gone.

I wasn’t present. My body moved, but my mind stayed somewhere else stuck between memory and resentment.

This next John was polished. Business-intellectual type. Sharp words, dull presence. I wasn’t mentally stimulated. I wasn’t even annoyed. Just… numb.

We were halfway through the session when his phone rang.

His wife. Followed by his kids.

He stepped away to answer, naked.

Her voice was warm, happy. The kind of voice that wraps around you like a blanket. She missed him. The kids missed him.

I sat there, watching the window. I get paid by the hour so it doesn’t matter.

Listening to love on speakerphone while I rubbed oil into his back.

He returned to the bed. Eyes avoided mine.

Guilt? Maybe.

But not enough to stop. They never stop. We finished the session with the radio on. And just as he came, the song changed—

To one we used to listen to.

I had sent him a Happy Birthday message earlier. Just a small gesture. I wasn’t expecting a reply.

But now that song was playing, and I wanted the damn radio to shut the hell up. He tipped me well. Said I was unforgettable. All of them say that. I left. Stepped into the elevator. Checked my phone.

A message.

It was him.

He apologized for not replying to my birthday message earlier.

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?

I stood there in the elevator, fixing my hair as if he could see me. As if I needed to look good for someone who had forgotten how to talk to me.

Still, I tried to be normal. I told him I still had his gift.

I offered him the movie we were supposed to see figured he could go with someone he’d rather be around.

I didn’t expect a yes.

Hell, I didn’t expect anything at all.

I remembered the time he tried to give me money for groceries. A hundred dollars. I refused. Pride is a cruel mistress.

He never pressed. Just made sure I never went hungry. He never let me pay for him. Always gave more than he took. I reassured him: “I can afford your gift. Don’t worry.”

But then his reply came like a knife “No thank you. I already know about your new job. Your friend told me.”

The ground under me vanished. My ears rang. My vision narrowed.

That bitch.

That fucking bitch.

I called her. She didn’t answer.

Of course not.

Coward.

I sent her a message and waited for her reply. Meanwhile, I responded to him vaguely. Guard up. Walls up. Knives out. He didn’t ask what I was doing. Not directly. But his words danced around it.

And I spiraled. You don’t get to reappear like this.

Not after the silence. Not after cutting me out.

Not now.

He said he didn’t want to argue. That it wasn’t his business.

Not his business.

I laughed out loud in the street. Manic. Bitter. Free.

I called her immediately.

She answered.

Her voice… nervous.“What did he say?” she asked. I grinned into the phone. “He said it was none of his business. I was right. I’m always right.”

She fell silent.

“That’s not what he told me,” she said carefully. “I remember him saying he didn’t think he was good for you. That he didn’t think he deserved you. That he couldn’t see the change in himself that I saw.”

I rolled my eyes.

She wanted it to be something deeper. Something worth saving.

I ended the call with a bitter laugh. “Well, I’m at my next client’s door. There was a pause. “Did you mean it?” she asked. “Would you have quit if he asked?” I didn’t hesitate. “Of course. But I’ve never meant a thing. Just another transaction in the books.“ I hung up before she could speak.

Slapped on my smile.

Knocked on the door.

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Chapter 8: Christmas Ghost

Christmas arrived like an uninvited guest—silent, tense, unwanted.

My friend wouldn’t stop calling. She was drowning in her own guilt, desperate to prove there was more to what he said. She still believed in the version of us that I had already buried.

I didn’t want to talk to her. She’d crossed the line, and even if she regretted it, some lines don’t fade.

Not with time. Not with sorry.

She believed in us. Always did. Even when I didn’t. She really thought I could get clean. That he would help me heal.I think, for a while, I believed it too.

Stupid.

Hope was a drug worse than anything in my jar.

I flipped my house upside down looking for tobacco and cheap liquor. The good bottle the expensive one I’d hidden away. Saved for a special occasion. Madame texted. Clients were sparse. It was Christmas, after all.

Some men played loyal, at least on holidays.

Madame announced she was taking time off. Everyone else was on vacation, curled up with families and traditions.

I had a few days alone.

No clients. No work. No distractions.

Just silence.

I wasn’t sad. Not exactly. I didn’t feel anything. But I wondered if I should. That evening, my friend showed up again. She looked around at the filth, the half-lit room, the cold. Said nothing. She washed the dishes without asking. Cleaned around the stove while I sat on the edge of the bed like furniture. Then it happened.

My phone buzzed.

Him.

Midnight.

“Merry Christmas.”

My body didn’t know how to react. My heart forgot its rhythm. My hands went still.

My friend saw the screen. Her face lit up like a child seeing snow for the first time.

She swore she didn’t say anything.

I didn’t believe her.

Why now?

Why this hour?

Why me?

He hadn’t spoken to me in weeks. Months, really. The last time he did, it was only to say happy birthday out of obligation, it seemed. I’d tried to respond, tried to open up. He never replied. Just left me hanging with half-sentences and demons to fill in the blanks.

I was done being confused.

Done being the punchline of a joke I never agreed to be in. My friend claimed he said things important things. Things he has never said to me.

I didn’t care anymore. Words whispered to third parties mean nothing if they never reach your own ears. I decided she was a liar. A hopeless romantic. Delusional. Or worse…naïve enough to believe someone like me could be loved.

I didn’t think much of the message. I assumed he’d disappear again.

People always disappear.

The new year came. I had bills. I had a body. I had a shift. Madame called said a client wanted wrestling. He finished in minutes. Said it was because of his girlfriend. Tight schedule. He was an art dealer with an arcade in his house. That’s what rich men do with their free time. Build fantasies. He tossed me out fast quicker than I could find my shoes.

My next client was better. A foreigner. Charming. Sad. He hated his job, missed his country. Told me I should visit one day. Like I could afford a passport. He was gentle. Loved my body. Said it over and over like he couldn’t believe it. I let him touch. Let him explore. Closed my eyes and pretended to enjoy it. Even let him think he’d pleased me. A lie. A performance. A routine. He earned his tip. He whispered, “I’ll dream of you.”

They always say things like that.

And for the right price, they can.

Back home, I stood in front of my liquor shelf. Poured myself something sharp. Looked for my cigarettes and couldn’t find any.

I thought about cleaning.

Then remembered—what’s the point? Instead, I went searching for sleep.

I opened the jar. My beautiful jar of salvation. My quiet little grave. I sorted the pills like a pharmacist looking at Vicodin, Cyclobenzaprine, Ambien, Advil. Sleeping pills at the bottom like hidden treasure. I picked what I needed. Not too much. Just enough.

Slid the jar under my bed, next to the bottle I’m saving for the end.

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Chapter 9: The Jar and the Joke

I fell asleep on the bathroom floor, halfway through a thought I can’t remember. I only woke because my phone buzzed my friend, again. Frantic. Demanding to know why I hadn’t answered. Why I hadn’t called. “I’ve been busy,” I muttered, which wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t tell her I’d been too tired to stand. Too foggy to care.

The apartment felt smaller than ever. The walls were pressing in. The cracks in the ceiling had spread, spider-leg fractures that threatened to crumble.

I told Madame I wasn’t working today. She didn’t mind. I’d been loyal. Profitable. Consistent.

She gave me space. I liked Madame. She never asked questions. She never needed explanations. She just gave me hours, money, and silence. I walked through the house with no destination, following the ceiling cracks like they were a map.

They led me straight to the booze. Then to the jar.

My jar.

I stared at it like an old friend.

I twisted the lid open and started sorting. My fingers moved without hesitation.

A breakfast of champions one for the heart, one for the mind, and one for the absence of both.

The pills tasted chalky. Coated in regret and nothingness.

I felt sick, but I kept going. Swallow. Breathe. Swallow again.

Eventually, the jar was empty. Only residue left. I could almost read my reflection in the bottle’s clear belly.

My throat went dry. I needed something to wash it down.

I grabbed the nearest bottle. As I continue to pour the bottle straight in I start to struggle to hold myself up to finish the bottle. I feel sleepy very sleepy.

It burned all the way down.

I stumbled to the floor. Everything blurred. I felt light. Lighter than I had in weeks.

Everything falls silent. I don't hear any sirens or gun shots in the background. I don't hear anything. I can feel my heart speeding up like it is confused. I can feel my blood moving by the nanosecond.

This is it, I thought. Perfectly timed. No interruptions this time.

Silence. Sweet, glorious silence.

And then shouting.

My friend.

Of course.

Why does she always find me when I don’t want to be found?

I can feel myself truly slow down. I feel light. In the background at l hear something but I'm not sure what it is. As the sound comes closer I realize it's my friend. I hear her screaming. She's struggling to hold my body up and trying to open my mouth. She begins opening my eyes because I can't do it anymore and I realize what she is about to do again. She's going to try to save me again.

But I didn’t want to be saved.

I was tired.

So fucking tired.

I heard her crying, maybe praying. I felt my body shaking, convulsing under her hands. She starts trying to tell me to avoid the light and mentions him again. All I could think of is that it doesn't matter. I know this routine well and this time it is perfectly timed.

This time, she’d be too late.

I don't want to be saved. I'm tired. I'm so tired.

No one can interrupt me. I'm free.

***Please note this is not to encourage anyone to commit these acts, if you are struggling please call 988 or visit https://988lifeline.org/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=web&utm_campaign=onebox *****