A song played softly under the whistle of the air. The car blazed past the city without effort, under the command of Natasha’s Blahnik’s pressing down the gas. One hand gripped the steering wheel at about one o’clock, the other held a cigarette, which she occasionally dragged on.

“Can you put that out?” Trent complained, from the passenger’s seat.
She blew out a long stream of smoke. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t you know those things take five minute off your life?”
Her eyebrows furrowed up, mind twisted around the comment. “And how is that you know that?”
“Because...”
Sensing his hesitation, “How can someone determine that you were to die five minutes before you did, for every cigarette you smoked?” She posed.
“Uhh...It’s science.”
“Fuck science.” She flicked her cigarette out of the window. “Fuck it, rightly.”

The car slowed to a stop, turning into a parking lot. Natasha found a parking space quickly, a small walk from the entrance. Trent exited the car, without question. They walked towards the building, Trent hesitant of what exactly was inside, but he didn’t make much objection. He thought, for once, he’d trust someone.

The outside was dingy, void of any allusion to what took place inside these tall walls. As they reached the door, Trent took his place behind Natasha, staying close.

There was a doorman. He was quiet–only nodded as they walked through the second door. As they entered, a different feeling came over Trent. Enamored as he stared across the room, at all of its brilliance. A spotlight shone on a stage: a suited man, hair slicked back, sat at a cherry-stained piano; a woman sat atop the piano, in a stunning black dress and heels whose satin laces trailed up to her knees–with the heels she played the keys on the piano and sung the words to some Broadway-esque number. Beautiful. Really.

In the center, a few small round tables were positioned, a few patrons seated amongst them, eyes glued to the performance. In another part of the club-like establishment, booths lined the walls, moonlit by grainy lights above.

They took a seat in one.

“Welcome to Heaven,” Natasha said. “My Heaven, at least.”
“It’s nice. I like it.” Trent said, still surprised by the charm of the place.
“I like to escape here. Just come here, sit, have a drink or what have you.”

Trent nodded. He was confused. About their relationship, mostly. Were they manager-client, were they friends, drinking buddies, what? He guessed only time would define that, but as Natasha’s wall began to fall and she confided in him her life, he sensed they were a little more than manager-client, if not friends.

Natasha Rivers had been born a normal, healthy baby, in the United Kingdom. Her mother, Liz, worked at the local convenience store. Her father, Adam, had expertise in a different field. However common, drug-dealing was something Natasha’s mother contested. She’d knew it before they had Natasha, before they started a relationship, before they even met. Everyone knew.

Natasha’s mother found herself most times depressed and upset with Adam, but without any close family and Natasha only a young child, she had to confide in Adam. The irony was brutal.

Adam would only tell her he’d stop one day, once he’d made enough money or once he could get out of the business he would. But he never did stop. He never made enough money. He never could get out of the business.

He’d grew up around them, he would live around them, and he would die because of them. It’s something Liz had to accept: Drugs were Adam’s life; Drugs were Adam.

He smoked them, injected them, inhaled them, stole them, hid them, loved them, hated them, desired them, needed them, wanted them, sold them. Anything you wanted. Pot, killers, speed, acid, angel dust, and his favorite, smack. Heroin, his heroine. Thought it would save him, save his family, save his Princess, Natasha.

Natasha wasn’t oblivious to what was going on. Even though Liz tried to shelter her, by elementary school, she knew what her father’s life was about. The change of attitude, the deterioration of his body, the disappearing at night, walking in when she was walking out for school, his verbal abuse of Liz, which sometimes got violent. She’d learn to block it out, play with her toys and ignore the drug transactions take place outside her bedroom door. She only hoped that the next time, her mother would wise up and leave. There was always a next time, but Liz never left. Until it was too late. For eleven years of Ethan’s life and thirteen of Natasha’s, Adam Rivers plagued their life.

There came a day when Liz had to work late, Ethan was out playing games with his friends, and Adam was in the streets, of course. Natasha sat on the edge of her bed, flipping through the channels, homework finished and the day dwindling into night. There was a loud knocking at the door.

Walking to the door and peeping out of the window, she saw that it was one of Adam’s drug buddies–an angry customer, specifically. She opened the door to tell him that her dad wasn’t home, but she’d thought wrong when she assumed that would be the end of their encounter.

The man forced his way in, pushing Natasha aside. He ran through the house, to Adam’s bedroom, in search of the drugs that Adam owed him. Natasha yelled for him to leave, standing in the doorway of her parents room.

He looked up at her, with a much better idea. This would teach Adam to fuck with him. Fuck me, I’m gonna fuck your daughter, fuck your prized little piece of virgin ass, fuck the tiara off your Princess.

He forced her to the floor, quickly undoing his jeans and pulling her clothes from her body. At first she cried out and hit him, but soon she only sobbed silently, biting her lip and waiting for him to finish. Once he was done, he searched the house a little more and left. She lied there, letting the tears on her face dry and drifted off to sleep.

Ethan found her. Liz came home immediately. Adam didn’t find out until the next day.

He stormed out of the house, his gun swaying with his arm. He searched the streets until he found the man and shot him three times, before being shot to death himself by one of the man’s friends.

There was a large funeral service, for Adam was esteemed by the fiends in the neighborhood.

Natasha cried for her father. She’d thought she hated her father, but now she missed being called Princess. She didn’t blame him, she blamed herself. For opening the door that day, for not calling the police, for being a girl someone would want to rape.

A few days after the funeral, Liz found Adam’s stash. They flew to America on drug money, got a small apartment on Liz’s savings, and tried to start a new life.

Natasha hated herself. And she found that her accent often caused laughter amongst her peers. They mocked her, teased her. She had very few friends throughout high school and dreamed of the day when she would never have to go again.

Throughout her teen years, one of the only friends she had was a girl who cut herself. Natasha thought it to be stupid and would stare at the girl, seated next to her on her bed, as she slid a blade across her skin. The girl would clench her teeth as the blood seeped from the opening, but Natasha found that the girl was always happy afterwards, jubilant. Not perky, but she felt better.

Natasha tried it. It was priceless.

She’d do it just about anywhere: arm, legs, stomach. She’d never let the blood dry on her skin as her tears had done that day she was raped. Eventually, her mother started noticing the bloody towels. But, it didn’t stop her.

She was addicted. She knew how her father felt when he did drugs. Sure, it hurts or it felt terrible at first, but it mellowed out into a state of pleasure. And sure, I’m hurting myself and hurting those around me, but I feel good. Let me feel good.

In her twenties, living with her brother–their mother had passed on peacefully years ago–she stopped. She looked in the mirror and stared at the hideous scars and realized what she was doing.

She got treatment, tried to figure out how to hide the scars. She didn’t want them. She walked past a tattoo parlor one day and figured it was her best bet. The ink beneath her skin concealed most of them, but they would never fade internally. Nothing would ever fade internally.

Trent touched her hand and she allowed him.