Chapter 3

Echoes in the Dark

Latifa stumbled up the stairs, fumbling through her pockets for her keys. Gone. Must’ve lost them on the way to that guy’s trailer—or maybe they were still in the trailer. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’d lost a dozen sets since moving in here. Good thing nobody knew where she lived.

Reaching the top, she sighed and knocked on the door. Her own door. That hit her sideways—knocking to get into her own damn apartment.

I’ve gotta stop drinking, she thought. One of these days, I’m gonna go out... and just never come back.

The door swung open, and Regina stood there in nothing but her bra and panties, eyeliner smudged, holding a half-empty wine cooler. “Did you lose another set of keys?”

Latifa stepped inside. “Yeah...” Her voice trailed off as she took in the mess.

The apartment used to be nice. Beige shag carpeting, a glass-top coffee table with brass trim, and matching lacquered end tables straight from a Sears catalog. The walls were off-white, dressed up with framed posters—Prince, Madonna, and a velvet painting of a panther crouched under a full moon. A fake ficus tree leaned in one corner, lights still tangled in its branches from Christmas—months ago.

Now? The place looked like the aftermath of a frat party. Pizza boxes stacked on the kitchen counter. Ashtrays overflowing. Beer cans and empty bottles cluttered every surface. Someone had spilled something sticky on the linoleum—maybe rum and Coke—which left dark footprints leading from the kitchenette to the couch.

A pair of fishnet tights hung off the ceiling fan like someone had flung them there mid-laugh—or mid-strip. The couch cushions were half-off, piled in a way that suggested somebody passed out face-first earlier.

Regina sighed, stepping over a crumpled bag of Doritos. “We were gonna clean... but, y’know... nobody felt like it.”

Latifa rubbed her temples. “Yeah. Story of my life.”

Regina blinked at her, head tilted. “What the hell. You look like somebody else in that dress. Can’t see your ass cheeks or... well, anything.”

Latifa forced a laugh, but it didn’t quite land. If only it were that easy, she thought. Just change your clothes, and suddenly you’re the kind of woman a man brings home to Mama.

She’d tried that once. Tried to be someone else. It was her third time trying AA. She’d met a man there—sweet, gentle. The kind who listened when you talked and held eye contact like he actually cared. She could tell he loved her... or was falling fast. Too ashamed to admit the truth, she told him she worked at the library.

And for a while... it worked. Dates. Laughs. Holding hands in public like normal people. Like a normal life. She let herself believe it could be real.

Until the night someone told him the truth. That they’d seen her on stage.

That Friday was burned behind her eyelids. The music. The cold grip of the pole under her palm. Sequins itching her skin. And the moment her eyes caught his in the crowd.

It wasn’t just betrayal in his face. It was something worse. Disgust.

That look... it hollowed her out. Still did.

Latifa glanced at Regina, her voice soft, “She’s like a mirror of who I used to be.”

Regina looked up, curious but tired.

“I never felt wanted. Never felt pretty... not until I stepped on that stage. It was the only place I belonged, the only time I could look in the mirror and like the woman looking back.”

“When you wake up without your clothes,” Latifa muttered, “you wear whatever you can find.”

Regina burst out laughing. “That’s why I always party here. Might take a while, but I always find my panties... somewhere.”

Latifa glanced around, chewing the inside of her cheek. Was I ever this wild? This stupid? Her stomach twisted. Three naked men were sprawled across the apartment—one face-down on the carpet, another tangled in a sheet on the couch, the third half-slumped in a folding chair, snoring.

Regina was an easy score. Everybody knew it. Tell her she’s pretty, and you’ve got her.

But then again... how many times had Latifa heard those same words—You’re so pretty... so beautiful...—and done things she didn’t really want to do? Things that still left her skin feeling dirty the next morning.

Her eyes drifted toward her bedroom. There was a box in her closet. Old Polaroids. Pictures she regretted taking... yet somehow couldn’t bring herself to throw away. Everything was firm back then. Smooth. Pretty.

Back when I still believed pretty was enough.

Latifa made her way to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. At the restaurant earlier, people had thought she was a lady in that dress. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like one. But that dress? It was a shield, a way to hide her sins from the world.

A soft knock pulled her attention.

“I’m heading out for coffee. Want one?”

Robert. Her ex.

She hated that he still showed up, but some nights, the silence felt heavier than his presence.

“No, I’m good,” she replied.

She began peeling off the dress, folding it carefully on the counter. She wasn’t sure why she kept it—maybe as a reminder of what it felt like to be seen, to be respectable. Or maybe as a small hope that one day she might feel that way again.

She stepped into the shower. Warm water ran over her skin, a quiet comfort. It washed away the lingering smell of last night—the stale smoke, the cheap perfume, the alcohol on her skin. The memories were already gone, lost to the fog in her brain.

But the shame? That stuck.

The water could wash away the smell... but not that voice. Not those words. Not the bruises she didn’t remember getting.

Her hand drifted down, fingers pressing against her hip. A dark, fingerprint-shaped bruise bloomed there, already turning purple and green. She stared at it, numb. No memory. None. Not even a blur. Her stomach tightened.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden pounding on the apartment door.

“Hey! Open up!”

Latifa froze, water pouring down her face. No... not now...

“You know me,” the man’s voice slurred through the wood. “C’mon. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

She swallowed, heart racing. “Go away!” she shouted back, gripping the edge of the shower wall like it could somehow hold her steady.

“You didn’t say that last time,” he snapped. “Last time, you let me in. Right in the shower... anytime I asked.”

Her knees nearly buckled. Jesus. I don’t even remember you... That made it worse.

A bitter laugh from the other side of the door. “What... you think you’re better now? You think hot water washes off how cheap you are? You used to be sexy. Hell, you gave it up easy. Now you think you got some kinda pride? Suddenly you care about privacy?”

Her breathing grew shallow, chest tight. Her palms braced against the tile. The water kept falling, masking the sound of her ragged breaths.

“I said get out!” she yelled, voice cracking.

A pause. Then, quieter, “Suit yourself. Ain’t like anybody else is knockin’.”

His footsteps shuffled down the hall, then faded.

Latifa pressed her forehead to the cool tile, the weight of everything sinking into her bones. Hope isn’t enough. Fear isn’t working either. And time... time’s slipping away faster than I can hold it.

She let the water run over her for another twenty minutes, as if it could somehow drown all of it—the shame, the bruises, the voice, and the fact that somewhere deep down, she wasn’t even sure this was rock bottom yet.

Wrapped in a towel, Latifa stepped out of the bathroom, the chill air prickling her skin. Regina was sprawled on the battered couch, swaying to the beat of the stereo, a fresh wine cooler in hand.

“You coming?” Regina called, a lazy grin tugging at her lips. “There’s a party down at Jax’s place. Everyone’s gonna be there.”

Latifa shook her head, voice low. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Suit yourself,” Regina said, though her eyes flickered with something unreadable. “But you need a night out, even if it’s just to forget.”

Latifa hesitated, then let the words slip free. “Maybe.”

She slipped into a tight black skirt that barely brushed her thighs, the small cropped top exposing the curve of her ribs and a hint of the black panties she tugged into place beneath. The outfit felt less like armor and more like a signal — a reminder of who she was in this world, even if it wasn’t who she wanted to be.

Outside, the party was a riot of noise — music pounding like a second heartbeat, people swaying and shouting, glass clinking, laughter sharp and desperate.

Inside, Latifa weaved through the crowd, feeling the pull of old rhythms — the smell of sweat and perfume, the shimmer of cheap champagne, the weight of every pair of eyes.

A hand brushed hers, a voice whispered promises she didn’t believe. She caught her reflection in a cracked mirror, saw the ghost of the woman she once wanted to be — and turned away.

Tonight wasn’t about hope. It was about survival.

The music hit Latifa like a punch to the chest as she stepped through the door. The bass thumped through the cramped living room, vibrating the floorboards and rattling the cheap plastic cups in people’s hands. The air hung thick with sweat, cigarette smoke, and the sharp tang of spilled beer.

Neon lights blinked erratically from a string tangled around a busted speaker. Laughter—some genuine, some forced—cut through the haze, mixing with shouted conversations and the occasional clink of glass.

Latifa’s black skirt felt tight, almost like a second skin, and the small cropped top left her ribs exposed to the humid air. She tugged at the hem of the skirt, feeling the black lace of her panties brush against her thigh—a silent, secret defiance.

A hand suddenly appeared in front of her, pressing a plastic cup into her palm, amber liquid sloshing inside. She glanced up—a stranger’s grin, teeth slightly yellowed, eyes glinting with the promise of oblivion.

“Here. On me,” he said, voice low and rough.

Latifa stared at the drink. The familiar burn called to her, whispering promises of escape, numbness, forgetfulness.

But beneath it all, a small voice nagged—Is this really the way out?

She tightened her grip around the cup, her mind swirling. Was tonight the night she finally quit? Or just another night lost in the haze?

Her throat tightened, but before she could decide, the music thumped again, drowning out her doubts.

She downed it and reached for another. She would deal with the regret tomorrow. Tonight, she was going to dance. Tonight, she would pretend.