Chapter One: No Use for Broken Things

She woke up in the afternoon, alone. The sun leaked through the blinds—too bright for how late it felt. The bed beside her was cold. Riko was gone; probably had been for hours. The apartment smelled like cheap cologne, sweat, and whatever takeout Riko had left behind the night before.

Her stomach twisted, low and sharp. The cramps were back—angrier this time, like her body was catching up on all the pain it had been forced to delay. She curled in on herself for a moment, pressing a hand to her lower belly, but it didn’t help.

She had to get up. There was nothing in the apartment that could help, and he hadn’t left her anything. No painkillers. No food. No care.

She dragged herself out of bed and pulled on an oversized black hoodie—the one that hung down to her thighs and covered the bruises. It still smelled like him, faintly. That alone made her nauseous.

Outside, the light stung her eyes. She was accustomed only to the dark. She kept her head down and walked quickly. Her body ached like she hadn’t slept, like she hadn’t eaten, like she hadn’t been human in weeks.

She covered her face with the large hoodie, walking down the street like a ghost. People passed by without looking twice—just another tired girl in last night’s makeup. Her stomach churned with every step. She hadn’t eaten since... she couldn’t remember when.

Halfway down the block, just before the corner, she stopped, leaned over, and threw up on the sidewalk. Someone nearby made a sound of disgust. She didn’t look up. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and kept walking—not because she was okay, but because she was used to this.

The grocery store was bright and too cold. She blinked hard and made her way down the aisles until she stood in front of the feminine products. Her hand hovered over a box of tampons.

And suddenly, she was somewhere else—a week ago, backstage, shivering under the stage lights, when Riko handed her the little white pills and told her she couldn’t bleed that week.

“Not during show night,” he said. “You can deal with it later.”

So she did. Every month. On schedule. Like a machine.

But when her period finally came, it was unbearable. The pain hit her like a punishment—cramps that folded her in half, nausea, headaches. When that happened, she would cry quietly in the shower while he watched TV in the other room.

She blinked the memory away, grabbed the box, and turned toward the checkout. Her hands were shaking.

...

Dim lights flicker above cracked mirrors. The air is thick with perfume, cigarette smoke, and hairspray. Girls get ready in front of vanity tables, music thumping faintly through the walls.

Raven walks in slowly, clutching her stomach. She’s pale, moving a little slower than usual. Mama G, who’s checking something on a clipboard, notices her. Raising an eyebrow, she says, “You look like hell. What’s wrong with you?”

Raven gets closer and quietly responds, “It’s… that time of the month. I’m cramping bad. I can’t go on stage like this.”

Mama G sighs, clearly annoyed. “Of course. With you, it’s always something—never a quiet moment.” She pauses. “Wait here.”

Mama G walks out of the room. Raven leans against the wall, wincing. A few moments later, Mama G returns with a tight-lipped expression. “Riko says you’re not getting out of work. You’re on drink service tonight. No complaints.”

Raven’s shoulders drop. She doesn’t argue. “Okay,” she says, defeated.

From the other side of the room, Cherry cackles. She’s sitting cross-legged on the makeup counter, applying lipstick. “Aww, poor little Raven’s too delicate to shake her ass tonight?” She laughs louder. “Gonna spill cranberry juice on the customers?”

Some of the girls laugh. Raven says nothing. She walks past them, slow but steady, and sits down at an empty vanity station. She begins to apply her makeup with shaky hands.

“Better not bleed on the ice buckets, sweetheart,” Cherry says, taking a puff of her cigarette. She wants a reaction, but fails. Raven brushes highlighter across her cheekbone like she didn’t hear a thing.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Mama G gives Cherry a side eye, then walks over to Raven and whispers, “He’s pissed about something. Don’t take it personal.”

Raven gives a faint nod. She stares into the mirror, finishing her mascara. Her eyes look distant, like she’s gone somewhere far inside herself.

The music from the main room gets louder—showtime is coming. Raven sets down her brush, takes a breath, and rises.

Despite the pain. Despite the humiliation.

She walks out.

...

On the stage, Cherry struts under red lights, bathed in glitter and sweat. She’s in her element—swinging around the pole with practiced seduction, basking in catcalls. The men love her. She drinks it in, laughing when they throw bills at her feet.

She teases the crowd into the mic. “Y’all better pay me like I’m your fantasy—because tonight, I’m your favorite mistake.”

The crowd roars. More bills fly. She winks at Riko, who watches from the corner like a bored king.

While on the floor, Raven moves like a ghost among the tables. Her tray is heavy, her limbs heavier. The music is deafening, but her world is muffled. She walks with mechanical grace, ignoring the pain gnawing at her insides.

One of the clients leans toward her, grinning. “You should be up there with her. What, too good to dance tonight?”

Another adds, “Or maybe Riko’s getting tired of her. New favorite on stage, huh?”

They laugh. Raven forces a smile and places their drinks down.

One of them calls after her, “Smile, Raven! You’re prettier when you pretend to like it!”

She doesn’t respond. Just walks away, eyes on the floor.

_

Cherry wraps her leg around the pole and flips upside down—powerful, graceful, eating up the lights and the lust. Meanwhile, Raven stands at a table in the shadows, her back to the stage. One hand is braced against a chair as another cramp hits. No one sees her gritting her teeth. No one cares.

Except maybe Riko—watching her from a booth. He sees the weakness. He doesn’t like it. He turns away and whispers something to one of his men.

_

The club is still buzzing. Lights flash, bass pulses like a heartbeat, and men shout over the music. Raven weaves between tables in heels that feel heavier with every step. She holds a tray full of drinks, her skin clammy with sweat.

She forces a smile as she approaches a booth of rowdy men.

“Hey, sweetheart, come closer. You always serve with that face, or is tonight just special?”

Another one eyes her from head to toe and smirks. “I like ‘em a little miserable. Makes it feel real.”

They laugh. Raven doesn’t respond. She places the drinks carefully on the table, trying not to double over from the cramp in her gut.

The first man speaks again. “Aw, don’t go yet. Sit on my lap for a minute.” He grabs her wrist.

She tries to escape quickly. “I’m on shift. Got other tables.” She pulls away, not harsh but firm.

His face darkens. “You uppity little—”

Suddenly, Riko appears nearby, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He’s watching.

Raven sees him too. She straightens immediately, biting down the pain. Smiling weakly, “I’ll be back to check on you later, alright?”

She moves away quickly, clutching the tray to her chest like armor.

Raven leans against the bar for a moment, breathing shallowly. A drop of sweat trails down her temple. Her stomach twists again—sharp and merciless.

The bartender asks, “You good?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” she answers quickly.

She picks up another tray and turns, only to nearly stumble into Cherry.

“Watch it, Raven. Don’t need you fainting in the middle of the floor. That’d really ruin the fantasy,” Cherry snaps.

But Raven pushes past her without saying a word.

...

Raven finally slips into the hallway, alone. She presses her back to the cold wall, hand gripping her lower belly.

Her face crumples for a moment—just a second—like she might cry. But she doesn’t.

She just breathes. Silent. Enduring.

Cherry walks by, wiping glitter from her chest, a stack of bills tucked into her bra. She looks Raven up and down with smug satisfaction.

“You know, the floor’s more your level anyway.”

Raven ignores her, still holding her stomach.

Cherry continues. “Maybe if you stopped moping and learned how to work a pole, you’d be worth something again.”

Raven doesn’t look at her. “I’m not here for the stage.”

“Then again,” Cherry shrugs, “maybe you’re just broken. Not much use for broken things around here.”

Cherry struts off, humming to herself.

Raven remains still. The hallway feels darker now. Her eyes drift toward the ceiling, blinking back the tears she refuses to cry in front of anyone.

There’s no one to talk to. No one to care.

She sinks slowly to the floor, her back sliding down the wall. Knees to her chest. Arms around her legs.

A shadow passes by at the end of the hallway—one of Riko’s men, Luis. He pauses, sees her, says nothing.

Keeps walking.

Lena is alone. In pain. And invisible.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

...

It was 3 a.m.

The front door creaks open. Raven steps inside slowly, the hallway dim and silent. The apartment is cold—too quiet, too empty. No sign of life.

She closes the door quietly behind her. Kicks off her shoes. Her feet blistered; her makeup smeared. She winces as she walks barefoot to the kitchen, opens the fridge—nothing but beer, old takeout, and the bottle of painkillers she bought yesterday afternoon.

She swallows two pills with tap water, drinking straight from the faucet.

She goes to the bed and sits on the edge, holding her phone. The screen is blank. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Riko.

She sighs and stares at the ceiling.

She tells herself: He doesn’t come home when I’m on my period. He only comes home when he can take something. When I’m useful.

Her eyes well up, but she tries not to cry. She should be past crying.

She lies down, curled on her side, arms around herself. A single tear slides across her nose onto the pillow.

In the silence, the pain in her stomach dulls—but the ache in her chest grows sharper.

She closes her eyes.

.

.

.