three strikes, you're out [stylists]
May 28, 2017 15:06:06 GMT -5
Post by arx!! on May 28, 2017 15:06:06 GMT -5
I was brought up as a southern belle;
I grew into the queen of Hell.
I grew into the queen of Hell.
I grab my bat from behind the bar and charge in with a few curses and a raised voice—"No fighting in my bar, jerk-offs!"—shoving the two drunken men towards the door. They don't separate, instead only knocking over another table and breaking a few more glasses. Fuckers are lucky I just got a raise and I'm in a good mood; I'll only hit them once.
I crack the bat across one guys ass. He yelps and turns on me with an enraged, drunken glare. I just shove the tip of my bat into his chest and glare back, pushing him toward the door. He shoves the bat away, looks at the guy who gave him a broken nose and starts to speak, but I'd rather not have this all start up again.
"OUT! BOTH OF YOU!"
They move slowly, cursing at me as they go. Ties straightened, hair brushed back, and if it weren't for all the blood dripping from their noses and lips, they'd look like they just came from a fancy business meeting. It's always the white-collar assholes who come in here and stir up the most trouble, griping about money. And it's always this time of year—when they've lost all their money because someone from a lower district beat out the Career.
My regulars laugh at the bar as broken glass crunches beneath my feet. They've already flipped the tables upright again, swept the glass beneath the pool table with their boots, and sit poised and ready for another round. Any chance they get to see me kick some money-grubbing asshole out of the bar is a good day in their books.
I'm not one for smiling, but I throw a smirk in their direction as I make my way around the bar. The past few days have been too good for me to stay mad.
I didn't think I'd ever see a victor from District 8 in my lifetime, let alone be the one to design her outfits. And I certainly never thought I'd get the chance to travel outside the Capitol. I'd heard stories from my father, but over the years I'd started to discredit most everything he said.
Especially now that I'm slowly gaining praise for my work—all that useless criticism he'd thrown at me when I was young was a lie. People liked what I did; he was simply jealous. And now that he's been fired, I'm sure of it.
My smile grows at the thought of it—someone younger, newer, better—replacing him. It's the only thing that could've topped Shelby Leviane winning the quell.
"Behave yourselves," I look up and down the bar, the grizzly looking men and women I've come to know as family raising their glasses as a sort of answer. "Seriously, don't make me have to use my bat."
I've never really cared what anyone else thought of me. I've never really cared for the high fashion that most stylists for the upper districts presented. And I've never needed approval from anyone to keep doing and creating and stitching the things I loved. I don't care if they hate how tattooed my skin is and I don't care if they think this bar smells too much of smoke or cheap beer. If no one shows, I'll know none of them are worth befriending anyway.
Friends have never been my forte. But the younger the stylists get, the more I feel like I can relate. They're getting more and more original, more talented, smarter, prettier, and in truth—I just want to keep up.
I crack the bat across one guys ass. He yelps and turns on me with an enraged, drunken glare. I just shove the tip of my bat into his chest and glare back, pushing him toward the door. He shoves the bat away, looks at the guy who gave him a broken nose and starts to speak, but I'd rather not have this all start up again.
"OUT! BOTH OF YOU!"
They move slowly, cursing at me as they go. Ties straightened, hair brushed back, and if it weren't for all the blood dripping from their noses and lips, they'd look like they just came from a fancy business meeting. It's always the white-collar assholes who come in here and stir up the most trouble, griping about money. And it's always this time of year—when they've lost all their money because someone from a lower district beat out the Career.
My regulars laugh at the bar as broken glass crunches beneath my feet. They've already flipped the tables upright again, swept the glass beneath the pool table with their boots, and sit poised and ready for another round. Any chance they get to see me kick some money-grubbing asshole out of the bar is a good day in their books.
I'm not one for smiling, but I throw a smirk in their direction as I make my way around the bar. The past few days have been too good for me to stay mad.
I didn't think I'd ever see a victor from District 8 in my lifetime, let alone be the one to design her outfits. And I certainly never thought I'd get the chance to travel outside the Capitol. I'd heard stories from my father, but over the years I'd started to discredit most everything he said.
Especially now that I'm slowly gaining praise for my work—all that useless criticism he'd thrown at me when I was young was a lie. People liked what I did; he was simply jealous. And now that he's been fired, I'm sure of it.
My smile grows at the thought of it—someone younger, newer, better—replacing him. It's the only thing that could've topped Shelby Leviane winning the quell.
"Behave yourselves," I look up and down the bar, the grizzly looking men and women I've come to know as family raising their glasses as a sort of answer. "Seriously, don't make me have to use my bat."
I've never really cared what anyone else thought of me. I've never really cared for the high fashion that most stylists for the upper districts presented. And I've never needed approval from anyone to keep doing and creating and stitching the things I loved. I don't care if they hate how tattooed my skin is and I don't care if they think this bar smells too much of smoke or cheap beer. If no one shows, I'll know none of them are worth befriending anyway.
Friends have never been my forte. But the younger the stylists get, the more I feel like I can relate. They're getting more and more original, more talented, smarter, prettier, and in truth—I just want to keep up.
ADESSIA SILVESTER
