His Mistress by Cynthia Nasambu

The bar smelled of beer and sweat. The kind of smell that clung to your hair even after you showered, stubborn and sour. I hated it here. Hated the sticky floors, the flickering neon lights, the way the air always felt heavy with too many unspoken things. But I kept showing up.

Bills didn't care about pride, and medicine sure as hell wasn't free.

Balancing a tray of drinks, I forced a smile at the men waiting at the corner table. My cheeks hurt from pretending. I laughed at their crude jokes, let them call me "sweetheart", and when one of them "accidentally" brushed my arm, I swallowed the anger that clawed at my throat and kept moving.

Losing this job wasn't an option.

Every coin, every tip, already had a name on it. Rent. Food. Medicine. My daughter's medicine.

My phone buzzed in my apron pocket, a vibration I felt more than heard over the pounding music and drunken laughter. I slipped it out when no one was watching. A text glowed on the cracked screen from Mrs. Ada, my neighbor who watched my daughter at night.

She coughed again. The fever's still there. Should I call a doctor?

My throat tightened. I quickly typed back, fingers trembling: No. Just keep her cool. I'll be home soon.

Home.

The word always felt strange. It wasn't warmth or comfort. It was a cramped apartment with peeling paint, a broken heater that rattled all night, and a bed too small for the both of us. But it was hers-my little girl's. The only reason I was still breathing.

I shoved the phone away and plastered on another smile as a customer waved me over. The clock above the counter ticked more slowly than my heartbeat. Midnight couldn't come fast enough.

Hours dragged. The jukebox cycled through the same three old rock ballads. The floor grew stickier with each spill. And still, the men laughed louder, their eyes heavier, their hands bolder.

By the time the bar finally emptied, my feet were screaming. My back ached. My palms were raw from scrubbing glasses. But I told myself the same thing I always did: Just one more day. Just hold on one more day.

I grabbed my coat from the rack, nodded at my boss, and slipped out the back door.

The alley behind the bar was narrow and damp, littered with cigarette butts and broken bottles. The cold night air stung my face as I wrapped the coat tight around me and started walking. The streets were quiet, too quiet. My steps echoed louder than they should have.

"Where are you rushing off to, sweetheart?"

I froze.

Three men stepped out of the shadows, blocking my way. Their smiles were sharp, their eyes mean. The stink of alcohol clung to them like a second skin.

"I don't want trouble," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my heart was thudding so hard I could feel it in my ears.

They laughed, a sound without humor. One moved closer, the metal buckle of his belt glinting under the flickering streetlamp. "Pretty girl like you, out here alone? That's trouble already."

I gripped my bag tighter. If I ran, they'd chase me. If I screamed, no one would hear.

The tallest one reached for my arm. I jerked back, but he was quicker than I expected. His fingers grazed my wrist and bile rose in my throat.

"Let me go!" My voice cracked, weak with fear. I swallowed and tried again, stronger this time. "I said move!"

They only laughed harder. The sound bounced off the alley walls, ugly and cruel, wrapping around me until I couldn't breathe.