sweaterstripes

As Scarlett led you into the lounge, your stomach filled with dread.

Every step was heavy, heart pounding like a wild drum in your chest, blood turning to ice, as if you were being frozen from the inside out. You curled and uncurled your fists at your sides, fighting against the clammy feeling in your palms. The sound of your footsteps echoed through the tiny hallway as she brought you inside through the employee entrance. Your breath was heavy, like someone was sitting on your chest, constricting your airways. Panic crawled up your spine and bundled right at the base of your neck, urging you to run.

But instead, you only followed.

Scarlett glanced back at you. “I just have to check on something up at the bar and then we’ll head to the dressing room,” she said.

You nodded, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets. She led the way down the hall, before heading through the curtain and into the main part of the lounge itself. The first thing you noticed was the bartenders; there were several of them busy stocking the bar, polishing glasses, cutting lemon wedges, wiping down counters. They were all men, dressed in fancy attire: white button downs with a black or gray vest, or suspenders over their crisp white shirts, all of them wearing matching black slacks and shiny black shoes. They all had on black ties that looked neatly ironed and flat against their chests. Scarlett wandered over, a swish in her hips, but before you even had a chance to follow, something stopped you in your tracks.

Because up at the back of the bar, in all its glory, was a giant sign advertising a drink special: the Riddler’s Whore.

You blinked once. Twice. A third time as your feet came to a sudden standstill.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Didn’t want to believe it. But sure enough, written on a chalkboard above the bar, the drink was written and colored in with green and purple chalk; beside it, someone had drawn a matching picture of what you assumed the drink was going to look like, a martini of some kind. Something, any other time, you might’ve been interested in, but now all you felt was the violent urge to be sick.

You whipped back around towards Scarlett. “Did you know about this?” you hissed.

She looked just as surprised as you. “No, I swear, I didn’t know anything—”

“It was my idea, actually,” a cruel, familiar voice said.

Your head turned towards the source, only to find Noire walking towards you with graceful, cat-like steps, a seductive sway to her hips as she moved. Her dark hair was piled into a messy, yet elegantly styled bun atop her head, and she wore a dress of glittering silver rhinestones that caught like pearls in the dim lounge lighting. She was beautiful and stunning.

Everything you would never be.