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ALLIE
The girl sat down on her bed with a thump.
"Fuck me," she muttered.
She slid her hand between her mattress and box spring, pulling out her sketchbook. It didn't have to be well-hidden to escape her father, fortunately, it just had to be not-obvious when he glanced in the room.
Old bastard's too lazy to go looking for it, she thought.
She picked up a number two pencil from her bedside table and tapped it against the cover of the sketchbook, running her other hand through her long red hair and sighing.
Sitting tailor-style on the bed, she propped her sketchbook in her lap and opened it, flipping lazily through it. She made a mental note to fix up a strand of hair in one drawing, the curve of a bottle in another. She trailed her fingers just over the pages, careful not to touch and smear her drawings.
There were no blank pages, but there were spots that weren't full yet, and she chose one of those, filling it with a sketch of an eye, one line at a time. Once she'd blocked in the rough shape, she started to add details, larger-than-life.
She knew she needed to practice eyes, they were the hardest part of a drawing for her, yet, the first place most people - most critics, especially - looked. It wouldn't matter if she had a gift for making hair look so real that it could come off the page, if her eyes were just a little wrongly proportioned.
Her sketchbook was filled with eyes, each one a little better than the last.
She filled the space, she finished the eye, and she sighed. She needed to practice hands next, and she wasn't good enough at them yet to justify the space in those pages.
The real sketchbook was returned to the spot of safety under her bed, and she picked up a fifty-cent notebook and started sketching in the rough proportions of a hand.
"What the fuck are you doing?" her father sneered from the doorway. "Wasting your time with that bullshit? Still?"
She glanced away quickly before looking at him, careful not to meet his eyes. Careful not to challenge him.
"Drawing hands," she muttered.
He walked over and yanked the book out of her hands, flipping through it with all of the care and grace of a pig.
He slowed, and grinned.
“What’s this shit?” he asked, holding up a picture of a naked man.
Allie blushed, even though she hadn’t actually drawn his penis, his groin was hidden decorously in shadow.
“Figure drawing class,” she said. “Everyone drew him.”
“Little whore, just like your momma,” the big man said, not unaffectionately.
“Momma wasn’t a whore,” she said.
His eyes narrowed, and she regretted her words. He reached out to her and grabbed her by the hair, stepping in front of her and twisting her head painfully so she had to look up at him.
“Your mother,” he said, punctuating his words by shaking her, “Was a cheap crack whore, whether you like it or not. She sucked cock for money, she sucked cock for crack, and she sucked cock out of habit, because she was so goddamn used to sucking cock.”
He dropped her onto the bed.
“Face facts, bitch,” he said, and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
She swallowed her tears and took a deep breath, rescuing her notebook and smoothing the pages carefully. Crumpled, but not too bad to draw on. She’d practiced with worse.
Looking at the clock, she gave up trying to practice - it was time to go to work, anyways. She slipped her wallet into her back pocket and her feet into a pair of old flip-flops, leaving her father’s apartment and heading down the street to the neon haven of her job.
The sign just said TATTOOS, but that was all it needed to say. No one called it anything but “Jan’s Place,” anyways, after the owner.
Jan himself was sitting behind the counter, counting bills absentmindedly.
“Hey, take the front
ALLIE
The girl sat down on her bed with a thump.
"Fuck me," she muttered.
She slid her hand between her mattress and box spring, pulling out her sketchbook. It didn't have to be well-hidden to escape her father, fortunately, it just had to be not-obvious when he glanced in the room.
Old bastard's too lazy to go looking for it, she thought.
She picked up a number two pencil from her bedside table and tapped it against the cover of the sketchbook, running her other hand through her long red hair and sighing.
Sitting tailor-style on the bed, she propped her sketchbook in her lap and opened it, flipping lazily through it. She made a mental note to fix up a strand of hair in one drawing, the curve of a bottle in another. She trailed her fingers just over the pages, careful not to touch and smear her drawings.
There were no blank pages, but there were spots that weren't full yet, and she chose one of those, filling it with a sketch of an eye, one line at a time. Once she'd blocked in the rough shape, she started to add details, larger-than-life.
She knew she needed to practice eyes, they were the hardest part of a drawing for her, yet, the first place most people - most critics, especially - looked. It wouldn't matter if she had a gift for making hair look so real that it could come off the page, if her eyes were just a little wrongly proportioned.
Her sketchbook was filled with eyes, each one a little better than the last.
She filled the space, she finished the eye, and she sighed. She needed to practice hands next, and she wasn't good enough at them yet to justify the space in those pages.
The real sketchbook was returned to the spot of safety under her bed, and she picked up a fifty-cent notebook and started sketching in the rough proportions of a hand.
"What the fuck are you doing?" her father sneered from the doorway. "Wasting your time with that bullshit? Still?"
She glanced away quickly before looking at him, careful not to meet his eyes. Careful not to challenge him.
"Drawing hands," she muttered.
He walked over and yanked the book out of her hands, flipping through it with all of the care and grace of a pig.
He slowed, and grinned.
“What’s this shit?” he asked, holding up a picture of a naked man.
Allie blushed, even though she hadn’t actually drawn his penis, his groin was hidden decorously in shadow.
“Figure drawing class,” she said. “Everyone drew him.”
“Little whore, just like your momma,” the big man said, not unaffectionately.
“Momma wasn’t a whore,” she said.
His eyes narrowed, and she regretted her words. He reached out to her and grabbed her by the hair, stepping in front of her and twisting her head painfully so she had to look up at him.
“Your mother,” he said, punctuating his words by shaking her, “Was a cheap crack whore, whether you like it or not. She sucked cock for money, she sucked cock for crack, and she sucked cock out of habit, because she was so goddamn used to sucking cock.”
He dropped her onto the bed.
“Face facts, bitch,” he said, and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
She swallowed her tears and took a deep breath, rescuing her notebook and smoothing the pages carefully. Crumpled, but not too bad to draw on. She’d practiced with worse.
Looking at the clock, she gave up trying to practice - it was time to go to work, anyways. She slipped her wallet into her back pocket and her feet into a pair of old flip-flops, leaving her father’s apartment and heading down the street to the neon haven of her job.
The sign just said TATTOOS, but that was all it needed to say. No one called it anything but “Jan’s Place,” anyways, after the owner.
Jan himself was sitting behind the counter, counting bills absentmindedly.
“Hey, take the front
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