It reeked of powder and perfume. The lights kept flickering as if they would break any moment. The walls were grimy, and nextway a few vanities were situated. The dressing room was desolate for all but two. A woman with a mature face and blonde hair sat across from a young redhead that was brushing her hair. They sat on a vanity facing each other. All that could be heard was their voices, and the sound of distant footsteps drawing closer to the door.

“April,” the redhead began, “I don’ know how much longer I can do this.” She looked soberly at the ground. “I just— I just— I don’t want to let him down. He’s done so much for me—he really has—but I don’t like this. I-“ April brought her hand to embrace the redhead’s shoulder. The redhead looked up from the ground and into the eyes of her elder— her mentor— the only person she could trust, with all her wisdom and experience.

“Eliza,” quoth April, who warmly met Eliza’s eyes with her own, “If I were you, I’d—“

The door swung open. There stood a tall gaunt man with a dignified stance. April and Eliza jumped out of their seats, and stood with wide eyes staring at the man. April felt the need to cry, but restrained herself from fear of ruining her maquillage. She put it on not fifteen minutes ago when she had been safe inside her dressing room and not in the prescence of her employer. She always felt the inclination to cry when he was there; most days were awful, but they became unbearable at the sight of him. Something would drop in her stomach and her lungs were chained so that even breathing seemed impossible, in his presence.

“Eliza Cummington,” the man said in a thunderous voice, “come here.” He walked over to the girls and grabbed Eliza by her hair. She became limp as a ragdoll and the man dragged her out of the room. She started crying and mumbling “please,” over and over again. April followed them into the next room, a large kitchen-like area that was located down the hall next to the dressing rooms. There was a table located in the corner, where four girls were sitting and eating. April couldn’t help but notice a metallic smell that was likely coming from the pans.

In seconds the man had thrown Eliza on the floor and was beating her. He shouted every obscenity at her. She cried and pleaded for mercy, but none was given; it was understood that the moment you became a prostitute you sold more than your sexuality, you sold your autonomy, your life, your very soul was no longer your own. What Eliza had done wrong no one could remember, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was disobedient and that her pimp could, and would, discipline her; and that he would do the same to everyone else. The four women watched with terror the fate that had befallen Eliza. April stood in the doorway and watched. She was frozen and would not move. All that could be heard were the grunts and pleas and sobs of Eliza— Eliza— poor Eliza.

For a moment April and the Eliza locked eyes. They had a way of understanding each other that surpassed language. When the redhead looked at April with teary, wanting eyes April understood everything. They were saying: “help me— don’t let him do this to me— stop this.” And when April looked at Eliza wirh a deadened glance, Eliza understood, too. She could almost hear April saying it; she was saying: “there’s nothing I can do for you.”

And in her heart April believed that.