1 A Symphony of Rain and Rebellion

"Fuck you! You stupid bitch!" I yell into the heavy downpour. The rent's due, my refrigerator's empty, and I just got fired. Again.

How exactly do you get fired from being a stripper?

Sure, I might have sucker-punched Dudley in his stupid face for putting his hands on me without permission, but that's hardly grounds for a boot, is it? I mean, you can't assume I'd welcome every man's grubby paws on me just because I dance for a living, right? I'm so exhausted I could scream; so I do. I scream for my parents, I scream for my siblings, I scream for the hand the universe dealt me, keeps dealing me. I scream for me.

Thunder claps across the sky, harsh winds blow, the rain increases in intensity, pelting me so hard I think I feel hail, and I laugh. It hurts against my skin, but I welcome it because, in that moment, the earth feels as angry as I do, and it's screaming with me.

How long I stay there, I don't know. I only know that by the time I'm ready to get out of the rain, I'm soaked so thoroughly it feels like water instead of blood running through my veins. I chance a glance around me to be sure that no one saw my rainy meltdown because even now, I hear my mother's voice in my head, reminding me of the first lesson I ever learned from my family: Don't ever let anyone see you break down in public, Lucia. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it is, hold it together till you're alone. Do not give anyone power over you.

While I don't care much for anything that has to do with my family, I always agreed with and followed that one rule. So, I pick myself up, dust myself off, and trudge the remaining blocks towards the place I've called home these past months.

I know I must look a picture: wet as a drowned rat, in a dress that reveals more than it conceals and these damned heels.

Speaking of, I pause by a lamppost, lean on it for support, and toe off my heels, sighing in bliss when my blistering feet touch the cold and wet ground. Feeling a little better, I continue my walk up the tiny hill leading to the hostel-type building I share with the other strippers, humming "Fight Song" under my breath and thinking about possible places a girl like me could get a job.

Is life a bitch? Undeniably so.

But do I care for her antics? Not particularly.