Her mother's skimpy black dress.
Diamond cross on a silver chain.
Padded bra.
Foundation for the scars.
Fake lashes.
Spike heels.
Platinum wig.

If it wasn't for the gold passcard in her clamshell purse, Emma could have been any of the young prostitutes in the downslums. She opened her father's wallet, removed several large notes, folded them carefully, and tucked them in between the soft flesh of her breast and mountain of jelly-filler inside the fabric of her bra. In the other cup, she had already placed the torn out page of her mother's diary. Scrawled in between gushes of confessional declarations of love was the address of Patrick Hearst's church. Emma stood from her vanity, tugged gently at her lengthy wig, and retrieved seven pills from an open drawer. She swallowed four in one gulp, three in another, and wrapped herself in her mother's overcoat.
It was early morning, and her parents were asleep in a heap on their floor above hers. They didn't hear the gears grinding in the lift as it carried Emma down to the first floor. They didn't hear the house chime, "Goodbye, Emma Crick" when she stepped out of the front door. They didn't hear the roar of their sleek black autocar as it pulled up to the front of the house, or the slam of its door when Emma slid into the passenger side.

"Swipper's down," the bored and impatient voice of the ticket master called from behind a thick plate of Plexiglas. Emma turned around, hand on the locked turnstile.
The station was a roar of clacking heels, coughing men, gossiping women, crying children and terrible musicians. Emma had only been on the metro when she was still a semi healthy girl, and then her parents had shown her the proper social etiquette. The workers smiled down at her, the turnstile spun with a mechanical clunk, and the trains arrived faster than they could be heard.

The woman was a blubbering mass of flesh sewn into a blue synthetic uniform. Her black hair fell in a single greasy sheet against her shoulders, and Emma half expected her to leave smudge marks on her passcard when she handed it to her. The woman behind the glass swiped the card, yawned with her mouth uncovered, and slide the back.

"Margaret Crick?" she asked. She cocked a brow, as if she had caught the age associated with name.

"Yes," Emma said calmly. She smiled through the glass.

Emma hooker her index finger into her bra, removed the neatly folded sheet, and read aloud, "Staten Island?"


"Whenever's the next time."

The woman nodded, hit some keys on a pad on her desk, and the ticket printed over on Emma's side of the glass.

Emma read the time, checked the clock and schedule behind the woman's head.

"You got a few minutes. Hurry."

Emma rushed over to the turnstile, stumbling in her heels, and hopped it.

No one noticed, and if anyone did, no one seemed to care.

AN: Apparently AP classes mean having no time to do anything other than write essays and study. Fuuun. But I had time to write today, and this story is gonna start getting weird pretty soon. I gave up on grammar. Maybe I'll try to fix it one day.