Red Rose

         Staring out the window, Ann Marie watched as the headlights passed by. Rain fell from threatening black clouds over head and left streak marks as it trailed down the broken pane of glass, it’s track disturbed by deep cracks that ran away from the center point, where a small hole was left from a long ago gun shot. Turning to a small mirror set against the wall she put on the last of her make-up, the red rouge turning her lips vibrant and full of life.
         Smiling, she got up and went down to the main floor, where the other dancers were getting ready to go on stage. Peeking out of the back curtain she saw the now familiar setting. The dim lights cast shadows about the room, causing people to be seen who were not there, small tables sat in the dark where men drank their amber glasses as the scantly clad cigarette girls hurried around the tables, selling not only their cigarettes. Jazz music swept over flappers and their gangster boyfriends, adding a rhythm to their wild movements. The harsh smell of alcohol and old urine drifted toward her as she closed the curtain, the music dying, muffled to a dull sound.
         Making her way back to the dressing room she saw the voluptuous Liza and her newest lover, their bodies entwined together. Walking by, she ignored them; after all this was the sleazy “Chat Noir” of America, prone to be populated with tramps and their latest admirers. With a quick look in the mirror, she pinned one strand of loose hair up under her headdress, and took her place behind Mary Beth. Taking a deep breath, she smiled as the jazz cut out, slow sultry music began, and the curtains pulled back. The smile wasn’t for her, but for those who came to watch, this show was for them.

         The night went on as Ann Marie did one dance after another, making nice with the customers, and occasionally helping the bartender keep up on tabs. Soon dawn approached and she fell into her chair in the dressing room. Taking a wet a cloth she slowly wiped away the make-up that allowed her to be just one more dancer at the 9th street speakeasy. As she washed her lips and cheeks, she began to see the real Ann Marie, not just some dancer from a grungy speakeasy who sometimes sold her self for a bit more money.
         As the make-up came off she saw the girl who had been dancing since she was five, and the child who had once loved to dress up in her mother’s elegant outfits. Now she wore bright flashy costumes every day and drank like any other flapper. Once her make-up was gone she began to unpin her headdress; it’s bright pink feathers falling around her. Gold ringlets tumbled down from underneath, her hair shining in the dim light that lit the small cramped dressing room.
         After putting on normal clothes, she grabbed her gloves and arranged her hat on her head. She made her way to the back door, and as it closed behind her she was left in silence.  The jazz music was gone and the loud whispers of the dancers muted. Taking a deep breath she began to walk towards her home.
         The next night Ann Marie danced only part of the night, by then a man had come asking for her. She had eyed him a few nights ago, his dark eyes staring intently at her body, observing it with insatiable hunger. The next night he had come again, sending a single red rose to her dressing room. Tonight he had asked for her. Setting down into her chair she told Frank, the bartender, to tell the man where to go and at what time. He nodded in agreement and left.
         Splashing water on to her face, she looked into the mirror, and washed the make-up off. Reapplying it, she put on enough to make her looks more vibrant, but not as much as she would on stage. Taking off her headdress she pulled her hair up into a bun, the golden rings falling around her face, and then changed into a more elegant dress. Now she was ready for the man who wanted to own her for the night.
         Making her way to the back alley she hugged her coat tighter as a chill passed over her skin. Turning into the back door of an old abandoned apartment building, she made her way up to the third floor. As she reached the top a shadow moved at the end of the hallway. Following it she went through a door that stood halfway open. The man moved forward and met her half way across the room.
         “Bonjour,” she said in a French accent.
         “Bonjour,” the man said. Sticking his hand into his pocket he withdrew another red rose “For you.” Stepping closer his hands moved up around her back, drawing her closer. His mouth met hers and they shared a long kiss, then slowly his mouth began to move downwards, trailing along her cheek to her throat and down to her collarbone. Soon he moved away and looked into her face; his smile, dark and wicked, sent a chill through her spine. Once his lips lowered back to her neckline a sharp pain began in her neck. Blood trickled down from where her skin met his lips, flossing over her collarbone and down her breasts.
         A moan escaped from her lips, as the man drained the last of her blood, lying her down on the floor. The sequins of her dress caught the moonlight, it’s reflection bouncing off the walls and ceiling, adding small light to the dark and forlorn room. Taking the rose from her hand he set it carefully over her breasts, it’s once red bloom now stained with the color of her crimson blood.