Writing Wednesday: Mary Was A Good Girl Part Eighteen

Okay maybe I didn’t stop at all. I drove all the way to the strip club. I had glanced at the mirror. There was blood on my face. I was still wearing my latex gloves, slick with blood. I ripped them off as best as I could while driving and tossed them into my bag.

The night was dark, thankfully obscuring my appearance as I stormed into the club. Bitsy was dancing and all eyes were on her as I continued on my path to Dale’s office. George was sitting near the door but stepped out of my way instead of trying to stop me.

Dale sat on the black leather couch. A blonde head bobbed in his lap. “Get out,” I roared as Dale tried to remove her and pull up his pants. She ran from the room.

“Mary,” Dale started. I turned and left. My intention was to go home but my bag still sat on the front seat. I picked it up, telling myself to put it in the trunk.

I walked into the women’s bathroom. The offending blond stood at the sink along with two or three of the club’s dancers. Those girls scattered as soon as they saw me but the new girl panicked. She attempted to lock herself into one of the bathroom stalls. I easily overpowered her and pulled her to the counter where I had dropped my bag.

She had dropped to her knees and cowered beneath my hand. Her coarse hair twisted in my fingers.   I looked at myself in the mirror. I was a wild woman. My hair stuck up and blood was still smeared on my face. I bent down to the woman’s face. “This is not your fault. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time sucking on the wrong dick.” I let her go.

I watched in the mirror as she scurried from the bathroom. I regretted not packing a toiletry bag in my work bag. As best I could with the rough paper towels, I washed my face. I smoothed my hair. I could have gone to Dale’s apartment but I didn’t feel as if I could invade his space.

I handed my bag to George as I passed him on my way to the bar. Dale sat on a stool watching me through the mirror behind the bartender. I sat next to him and accepted the shot of scotch he offered. I had lost my will to fight. The scotch burned as it went down my throat. We sat in silence. I drank a second shot before turning the glass over. I waved my hand over the glass to signify to the bartender I was done.

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