I change out of my club gear slowly, the adrenaline of the shift replaced by fatigue and a dull ache in my chest. Rhea isn't around – she must have left immediately after her last set, not even bothering to stick around for cleanup or goodbyes.
Can't blame her. I peel off my lashes, wipe the layers of makeup from my face, and throw on an oversized hoodie and jeans. The simple clothes feel like a comforting disguise, a way to disappear for a while.
As I exit through the back door of the Chrome Daisy, the city's night air hits me – damp, cool, carrying the scent of rain on concrete and distant exhaust fumes. It's quieter back here in the alley behind the club. The thump of music dies to a faint throb behind the closed door.
My breath comes out in a shaky exhale; I hadn't realized I'd been holding it since seeing Jim on that floor.
I fish in my pocket for a cigarette – a bad habit, but after the night I've had, I need something to steady my nerves. Cupping my hand against the breeze, I light it and take a long drag. The smoke curls up past the dull security lamp over the door. That's when I notice the fresh spray paint on the metal exit door, to the left of where I'm leaning.
"YOU DON'T OWN ME."
The words are scrawled in jagged black letters, still dripping in places. They weren't there at the start of my shift, I'm sure of it. The graffiti stands out against the corroded steel door, a defiant scream frozen in paint. I stare at the message, transfixed.
For a long moment, I just let the words sink in. You don't own me. There's a pang in my chest, something between hope and bitterness.
A message to the club? To some pimp? To the city at large? Whoever tagged this, they wanted to be heard. They wanted to remind the rest of us slaves that we're… what? Free? I wish I could believe it.
I reach out and trace one letter lightly with my fingertip, feeling the tacky fresh paint. It smears black on my skin. Ownership. It's a concept that's been gnawing at me – who owns me? The Chrome Daisy, with its managers who take a cut of my soul every night? The landlords and their rent demands that own my paycheck before I even earn it?
The men like Gold Tie who think a few credits can buy my body and compliance? Or the system itself, the city's gears that grind us all down?
A drop of black paint runs down from the word "OWN," cutting the phrase in two. I rub the smear between my fingers, then wipe it on my jeans.
My cigarette has burned low; I take one last drag and flick it to the wet pavement where it hisses out.
"You don't own me," I whisper into the empty alley, testing the words on my tongue. Do I believe it? The truth is, most days I feel owned by everything and free in nothing. But seeing it declared like this… it sparks a tiny flame of rebellion in my tired heart.
The distant wail of a siren reminds me it's late and I shouldn't linger. I pull up my hood and step away from the door, leaving the bold graffiti to glisten under the weak light. On my long walk to the transit station, those four words keep echoing in my head with each step. You don't own me. Maybe it's a rallying cry. Maybe it's a lie we tell ourselves to survive.