Elizabeth Reed tripped as she jumped rope in her yard one evening. Falling on her face, she lay sprawled in the wet grass, regretting wearing her nicest jumper to play in the yard. The pink polka dots were spattered with green flecks, and her polished black Mary-Janes were smudged. Sitting up anxiously, she peered around the yard, just to ensure her mother hadn't seen her fall, as she would not be pleased with having to do more laundry.

Elizabeth's mother worked as an actress in New York City, often leaving Elizabeth alone at their suburban home, trusting her to be responsible. Mrs. Reed was rather beautiful, and no matter how hard she worked, or how tired she was, she never let Elizabeth see her down. Unfortunately, a busy career took a severe toll on her. She turned to alcohol to solve her troubles. She would often come home late at night, long after Elizabeth had gone to bed, drunk beyond belief.

One day, however, Mrs. Reed came home distraught, as her favorite bar had been shut down due to the new Prohibition laws. She had an idea. No one would suspect a little girl of doing anything illegal. She looked at her daughter, who was staring up at her with wide brown eyes. No, she couldn't put her ten year old daughter in danger. But then again..., her mind seemed to whisper, you need the alcohol.

"Yes," she said aloud, much to the confusion of Elizabeth, "I do need it." As if in a trance, Mary Reed gripped her daughter's hand, snatched up her black overcoat, and walked briskly her shining automobile, which she promptly drove into the heavily populated city.

For the last five years, when most 15 old girls were in school, Elizabeth had spent her days in the filthy basement of an abandoned bar, where she waited on customers and plodded about miserably in an old sooty apron. Ages ago, her mother brought her here, then went back for a few personal belongings. After that day, Elizabeth never left the basement, except for once, when she tried to follow her mother up the creaky wooden stairs, but was caught and immediately sent back down to her niche behind an air vent.

The only way to access the entrance was to crawl beneath the plank stairs, and to press a small lever under the lining to release the mechanisms holding the child-sized door in place. Behind it, Elizabeth's low-ceilinged, ten foot by ten foot room consisted of a small cot, pushed against the wall under the vent, farther along the wall from the door. It provided an almost unobstructed view of the speakeasy, so long as no one was standing in front of it. The brass filigree was the only source of fresh air to the compartment.

Elizabeth sat on her bed, staring at the beige, cracked ceiling. She relished these little moments alone, where she didn't have to work, nor was she constantly surrounded by drunk men making an attempt to flirt with her. It was about midday, at least, according to the pocket watch she had on her bedside table it was. Some rich man had left it at his table a few months previous, and Elizabeth snatched it up before anyone else could lay claim to the trinket. The basement was empty save for the bartender, who scrubbed at the counter with a dirty green rag and his spit. Elizabeth sighed. In a few short hours the evening party crowd would arrive, and she wouldn't sleep until the early hours of the morning. She heard Mike spew a wet cough and she pitied anyone who drank anything he mixed for them tonight.

She glanced at the clock: 1:24 pm. Elizabeth stretched and rolled away from the vent, sliding under the scratchy gray wool that served as a blanket, and drifting into thoughtlessness.

An obnoxious thumping disturbed her sleep, as dried plaster shook loose from the ceiling and tickled her nose. She checked the time: 4:30; time for the evening rush. Elizabeth stood shakily, rubbing sleep from her intelligent brown eyes. Time to get back to work. Reaching for the cheap wooden comb on the vanity, she carefully brushed out the tangles in her silky, chocolate colored hair. It reached just past her shoulder blades, and the gentle curls rested softly on her shoulders, bouncing when she moved. Every few inches, naturally blonde colored highlights interrupted the flowing waves and added a unique beauty to it.

She re-tied her coal-dust gray apron around her small waist, over top of her brown calf-length skirt, black stockings, and worn leather lace-up work boots. Elizabeth knelt next to the door, stuck two fingers into the small circular indent in the right side, and pulled it back so she could crawl on her hands and knees onto the wood paneled bar floor. She stood, brushing herself off.

Four hours later, after three proposals (which Elizabeth promptly turned down), five near-miss drunken bar fights, and thirteen instances of wishing she could disappear, Elizabeth was allowed a break by Mike, who had spent the majority of the evening smoking a thick cigar, and waving away anyone who approached him. She slumped into a rickety wooden chair off to the side of the main dancing area, and rested her head in the crook of her elbow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered clumping footsteps stomping her way, along with a faster, quieter, set of high heeled shoes.

"Please sir, I'm on a break-"

A firm hand gripped her shoulder. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Elizabeth looked up. Right into the cold blue eyes of Mr. Reinback, the man who owned the speakeasy. He towered over her, a full six feet tall, with close cropped sandy blonde hair and a permanent scowl plastered across his finely chiseled face. He wore a navy blue pressed wool tweed suit, the kind with three buttons, not four, and he carried a smoldering cigar, which he pulled to his lips, before exhaling a ring of smoke in Elizabeth's face. She gagged on the putrid stench wafting her way as it filled her nose.

"Please Elizabeth," her mother pleaded, "just do as he says."  Elizabeth glared at her with unfriendly eyes. The years had not been kind to the actress. Her mousey brown hair, once full of life, lay flat against her back, the maroon dress she wore hung loosely on her thin frame, and her eyes, sunken into hollow sockets, darted about fearfully as she clutched Mr. Reinback's muscular arm. "He'll take care of us."

"Us?" Elizabeth retorted, "Since when has there ever been an 'us'? You left me to rot in this place!"

"Elizabeth," her mother hissed, "this is not the time."

"Yes, it is. If not now when? When will I be allowed to leave?-"

Her protest was interrupted by a deep, throaty laugh from Mr. Reinback. "Oh Mary, I do like this one. She has spirit."

"Yes, yes, go on!" Mary Reed said hopefully. Her countenance akin to a child pulling on his mother's skirts to point out a new toy in a brightly lit shop window.

"But I believe she would do poorly in the position I had in mind." Mrs. Reed's newfound pride deflated in an instant, replaced by scorn for her disgrace of a daughter. Mr. Reinback shook off her arm and stepped away. "I had high hopes for your offspring, and yet you've disappointed me."

"Please Mr. Reinback, sir, you see, we need the money-"

"That is not my problem. But you must remember," he added with a sidelong glance at Elizabeth, who was watching the proceedings with confusion, "you gave your daughter into my service in exchange for your time here. You have no claim over her, no right to complain about anything I have her do," he jeered, revealing tobacco stained teeth.

Elizabeth's facade of confusion changed to horror as she learned her mother's  terrible secret. Her mother's addiction was the reason her liberties had been taken from her? She had enjoyed a comfortable life before this. The income they reaped from the acting jobs had been enough for the two of them to live profitably for years; until it had been squandered on alcohol.

"You," Mr. Reinback commanded, startling Elizabeth out of her memories, "get back to work." As if in a drunken stupor, she rose and gathered her tray, delving back into the crowd, with an expression of polite calm, not even looking back when she heard an angry shout, the sound of a ferocious hand connecting with warm flesh, and her mother shriek.

The time was 3:46 am. All of the basement's temporary tenants had left, and the tedious cleanup process had been completed. Elizabeth stumbled into her room, exhausted, just as she was every night.  She barely managed to untie her apron, crawl to her cot, and pull up the covers before she began to drift into unconsciousness. A husky whisper from the vent sent a jolt of adrenaline through her, and her eyes flew open.

"Elizabeth," the voice murmured. Elizabeth rolled over and peeked out the grate, surprised to see her mother kneeling outside. "Elizabeth, open the door," she pleaded, her breath thick with alcohol. Elizabeth could see a dark purple welt blooming on her cheek from where Mr. Reinback slapped her. She tried to bring pity to her heart, but all she felt was resentment for her mother, and how carelessly she had tossed around her daughter's freedom for a few drinks.

Slowly, Elizabeth walked to the door, and pulled it aside, to reveal her mother, who crawled into the room casually as if the evening's events hadn't occurred, and the bruise on her face did not exist, though Elizabeth was certain it must hurt terribly. Mary Reed plopped herself down on a small purple painted chair in the corner, parallel to the entrance.

"What do you want, Mother?" Elizabeth inquired coolly.

"To explain," her mother replied without missing a beat.

"What is there to explain?"

"How much you've disappointed me," she hissed menacingly, the alcohol in her system slurring her words. She got to her feet shakily, leaning on the wall for support. Elizabeth shrunk back against her bed, wanting the situation to go in a different direction than it was.
"That man was my last chance at a decent life!"

"Your last chance? What about me? You gave me to him to help yourself? What about my life? Don't I matter?" Elizabeth felt a fiery need to defend herself, though her steeled resolve was rapidly fading.

"No."

A tear formed in the corner of Elizabeth's left eye, as her mother's cruel words sunk into her fragile, innocent heart, and she turned away to face the vent.

"Will I ever be allowed to leave?" she whimpered.

"That's not up to me anymore," Mary Reed murmured, considering.

"Why don't you care?" Elizabeth asked, rising with her desperation.

"Why should I?" The bland statement hung in the air like a warm breath on a cool day. Elizabeth sat back on her cot. Her mother stepped closer before continuing.
"You are nothing more than a parasite, an unwanted, unloved creature. You do nothing but remind me of the perfect life I once had," she said, her voice dripping with venomous contempt, increasing in volume until her pent up frustration rang in the basement.

Elizabeth promised herself she wouldn't cry, at least, not until her mother was gone. Mary walked briskly in the general direction of the door before turning on her heel and stalking back to Elizabeth. She raised her bony right hand and it whistled towards Elizabeth's impeccable cheek, sending her tumbling to her pillow. Her face smarted and she cried out.

Somewhere in her mind she heard her mother slam the door, and the small outside lock click into place with a light snick, but it all sounded as if it were in a different universe. All she could register was the mind-numbing pain that enveloped the entirety of the right side of her face. She clawed at it with dirty fingernails, as if wounding it more would stop the agony. Her vision blurred, and she felt a tingly sort of paralyzation tickle her toes and creep up her body like a disease.

Soon she found herself unable to move. And so she lay, on her bed, waiting impatiently for her limbs to cooperate again. Sometime after she fell asleep, she heard numerous loud thumps and a woman screaming something along the lines of, “how dare she steal?” But it all sounded tinny and far away.

Hours passed before Elizabeth awoke and felt able to stand, and even then she was so incredibly nauseous that she was forced to lean on the somewhat more stable wall for support.

The shock had been too much for her brain. It was overwhelmed with everything from her mother's words, to the throbbing of her face. Elizabeth could feel the phantom handprint begin to swell and bruise an array of blacks and blues under the layers of smooth skin.

She hobbled to the door, where she tried to slide it open, even though she knew it was futile. After all, she had heard the flimsy lock click, and even though it should have been easy to break, Elizabeth was weakened. The night's events hadn't seemed real until that moment. Out of sheer frustration, she banged her fist on the hard, unyielding wood slab. The tender skin on her knuckles split; scarlet blood oozed from the cuts. Swearing under her breath, Elizabeth sucked at her fingers and wiped away the metallic-tasting liquid.

She glanced at the pocket watch on her side table. 7:48 am. No matter, the bulk of the rush wasn't for hours, and there was no way they would try and manage it without her, right? But for the moment, she was trapped in her own room. She lay on her cot and heaved a sigh. An idea struck her, and she sat up abruptly.

"Mike!" she called through the vent, "Mi-ike!"

"What?" he grumbled, clearly annoyed at being disturbed this early.

"Let me out!" She beckoned to him, though she doubted he could see her through the bronze swirls of the vent.

"Sorry sweetheart, your mother told me specifically not to."

Elizabeth let loose a string of curses to make a sailor jealous. She exhaled slowly before speaking.

"Did she say when you could?" she inquired politely.

"Yea, she said 'when you think she's learned her lesson'. I told 'er I dunno what lesson she means, so she said at least a day."

"Perfect," Elizabeth muttered, "I'm stuck here."

"Oh yea," Mike called, "she also said to give you this." Elizabeth heard his blundering footsteps approach her vent. Two sausage-like fingers entered her sightline. Clutched between them, was a folded up c***tail napkin. Mike pushed the flimsy, wadded up paper through a gap in the ornate bronze, before lumbering back to his bed, through a door behind the bar, closing it behind him.

Elizabeth sat cross-legged on her scratchy dark-gray blankets as she unfolded the napkin to reveal a brief note scribbled hastily in her mother's looping handwriting.

Elizabeth,
You'll find I've removed your collection of stolen items from your room. I want your full attention as you reflect.
                    Love,
                           Mother

Love, Mother. Those two simple words lingered behind Elizabeth's eyelids whenever she blinked. They lurked in the corners of her mind, reminding her of the rapidly decaying memories of her mother from before the alcohol invaded. They stunned her. After all that Mary Reed put her through, after all she'd done, she had the nerve to call herself a mother?

Startled out of her rage by the realization that her hidden treasures were gone, she knelt and peered under her bed for the usual box of her collected items. Mary called them stolen, Elizabeth called them found.

Each night after all had left the bar, save for Mike, she would sweep the room, searching for anything that could be useful. She collected all items ranging from lost buttons to coins to books, and stored them under her bed in an onyx box painted with thin red swirls. She often took them out to occupy the hours between sleep and the next evening.

The bizarre gathering of items contained a mismatched set of earrings (one pearl, one diamond), anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five buttons, a wedding ring, a pocket edition of the Holy Bible, fourteen fountain pens - marbled in a variety of vibrant, unique, colors -, three pairs of reading glasses, and hundreds of scraps of paper. Elizabeth found a peculiar childish delight in drawing elegant scenes from the pitiful gathering of books she had acquired. Her favorite to date, was a children's book she'd found in an abandoned shopping bag entitled: Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Elizabeth poured over the withered pages for days, absorbing any fantastical image she could formulate in her imaginative mind. Boredom inspired her dissipating creativity to bloom and flourish. She loved to sketch out the gargantuan forests, the home of the fairies, the enchanting palaces, or the places of legendary balls.

Tacked onto the plaster walls of her room were black and white drawings, the expressed results of her mind's restless wanderings. She relished staring at them for countless hours, fathoming new, profound theories of life beyond the confinement of the basement. For now though, her fantasies were trapped in her corner along with her physical form. Her art, Elizabeth noticed only now, was left in tatters on the crumbling concrete floor, the result of her mother's drunken rage.

She knelt and began scavenging for any works that may have survived the rampage. Slowly, she gathered the wrecked pieces of paper, and tried to pair them with their matching counterparts. Elizabeth considered it a puzzle of sorts, something she hadn't done in years. In all her searching, she only found two drawings intact. The first, was an elegant doodle of the evil queen from Little Snow White. The second, however, depicted a sketch of her childhood home, the memory brought forth from deep within the recesses of her mind.

The picturesque home was a classic whitewashed building with red shutters and door. The precise green lawn was trimmed to perfection, not one blade was out of place. A white picket fence encompassed the property, leaving plenty of space under the massive oak tree - which towered forty feet in the air - for Elizabeth to play. Her mother's Ford Model T sat in the sandy colored concrete driveway. Well, technically it wasn't hers.

When Elizabeth's father left them, - he had run off with another woman in the dead of night - he left in her fancy new automobile model and abandoned his old one to rust in the driveway. After a degree of foraging, Mrs. Reed emerged from the coat closet triumphant, waving a keychain with a single key on it. The silver souvenir tag on it read: 'Steveston, Maine'. Neither of them knew exactly why there was a tag from a small town in Maine on the keys, but neither Elizabeth or Mary Reed argued, although Mary removed it not long after retrieving it from the cupboard in the closet. From there on out Elizabeth noticed her flinch slightly whenever she passed the shoebox that contained all remnants of Oliver Reed.

Once, Elizabeth opened it when she thought Mrs. Reed wasn't watching. She was halfway through a stack of old photos from when her mother and father dated, when Mary swiped them from her weak, childish grasp. She shoved them back under the lid, and stuck the disintegrating shoebox on the highest shelf in the house. So far as Elizabeth knew, the box was never touched again.

Now, as she sat alone, with gentle tears swimming behind her eyes, she clutched the last tangible memory of her old life. It was then that she made a silent promise to herself; she would escape. She would find her own picturesque home and a new family. She could forget about her mother and all that happened to her here. Though she knew she could never truly forget. There would always be quiet reminders. In every drink she sipped, at every restaurant she visited, in every air vent, basement, drawing, corner, blanket, story, car, street, doorway, and building; there would be memories. Lurking in the bushes, in shadows, in every looming figure. Under duress, she would sense the pressure of racing to serve a customer. In her sleep, she would be taunted by hellish figments of her imagination, bringing forth into light the darkest of moments.

Trembling slightly, Elizabeth resumed gathering the torn fragments of paper. When that had been completed, she set about cleaning up. She removed every article of clothing from the upturned milk crate that sat in the corner and refolded it; taking extra care to smooth out any wrinkles or uneven creases. After folding the garments she wasn't wearing, she untied her filthy apron from around her waist, and dipped in the washbasin pushed against the far wall. Somehow the rigorous scrubbing and the grating of the washboard distracted her, and she fell into a sort of trance. Her body was grounded, but her mind was free to wander at will.

Elizabeth's thoughts drifted to what lay beyond the four walls of the bar. How would she get there? The covert entrance, she'd gleaned via eavesdropping on her customers, was hidden at the back of a shadowy alleyway on one of the busiest streets of New York. The only people who had keys to the single lock on the inside of the door, were Mr. Reinback and... Mike. That was her answer. Mike. Elizabeth fumbled with her apron and rubbed her knuckles on the metal of the wet washboard. She whipped her hand away and gripped her fingers tightly, swearing under her breath. At least now she had the beginnings of a plan. She needed to get the keys from Mike. After that- well, she would figure it out if she made it that far.

Her first step: get out of her room.

"Mike!" Elizabeth yelled. "Mi-ike!"

"What?" he replied redundantly from his perch on a red leather barstool. He held a newspaper in one hand, and pressed a smoldering cigar to his oversized lips with the other. 

"How do you expect to manage the crowd without me?" she asked sweetly. "They'll be here in three hours." Would they really be there in three hours? Had it truly been that long?

Mike paused, legitimately confounded. It was evident that he hadn't thought this through. "Uh..."

"Maybe if you let me out I could help you." she persuaded.

"But your mother said-." he faltered.

"Don't worry about what she said," Elizabeth cooed, a fresh spark of excitement ignited inside her chest, alongside her racing heart, "wouldn't it be easier just to release the latch on my door than deal with all those customers alone?" She drew out the last four words in her most sensible, sympathetic tone. She could feel the change in Mike's attitude as he considered her proposal. Momentarily, she heard the familiar thudding of Oxfords on the polished wooden floor, and through the vent her gaze fell upon Mike walking towards her corner. She scrambled to her position to the right of the sliding door. Soon she would never have to see it again.

Mike was a foot taller than she was, and weighed easily three hundred pounds more. Her only advantage was her agility. If she could take him by surprise, she could hopefully knock him unconscious before he had a chance to fight back. If not, well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it. With the drawing of her house tucked in a pocket, Elizabeth braced herself.

The latch on the outside of the door jingled as Mike unlocked it and began to slide the door away. Time seemed to slow as Elizabeth pounced, lunging forward with reckless abandon. She aimed for his midsection and tackled Mike while he was still crouched and off balance. The pair fell back and sprawled on the floor. Mike's balding head hit the wood with a hard thud, and his eyes rolled up behind his eyelids. Elizabeth stood shakily and nudged him with the toe of her brown leather work boot. He didn't stir.

She strolled to the concealed space behind the bar that served as Mike's room, new territory that she'd never dared explore. Inside, she was taken aback.

The room was surprisingly neat. The bed was made - a real bed, not a cot - with clean, white, feather pillows and a down quilt. Elizabeth felt a twinge of envy. He had a spacious bedroom and a comfortable bed, while she was stuck behind a wall with a cot and one scratchy blanket.

A collection of Russian nesting dolls was set out on the mantle, and Elizabeth stifled a laugh. Mike, a 400 pound, six-foot-three, illegal bartender, had a collection of Russian nesting dolls. What was the world coming to? She resumed her search for the key.

In the process, she recovered her box of treasures, which she promptly opened, and set aside anything that could be valuable, including the wedding ring and the earrings. Upon further inspection of the room, Elizabeth pulled a small waist pouch from a stack of hats, and set her findings inside, tying it tightly to a loop on her skirt.

Cautiously, she approached the bed. Tempted as she was to find a knife and slice apart the fine bedding, she dulled the impulse and merely settled for sticking her hand under the pillow. Her nimble fingers moved quickly, and they soon grasped a thin metal chain. She withdrew her prize and allowed it to fall around her neck. She hoped this was the right key.

With her heart beating a million miles per hour, Elizabeth pounded past Mike, who still lay incapacitated on the floor, and clambered up the stairs, pausing only a moment when she passed the point where she'd been caught last time. This attempt however, went without incident, and Elizabeth was able to reach the hidden door, with the sounds of the outside world growing louder in her ears.

At the top of the steep staircase she hesitated, clutching the metal key in her fist. Her gaze rested on the lock. If she followed through there would be no going back. Is this really what she wanted? To leave all she knew in favor of a new, unknown future?

In a split second, her decision was made. She fumbled the key into the lock, and turned. The sound of gears grinding filled the stagnant air, and the wooden door creaked open, revealing a dark alley, with a single flickering lamp above the threshold.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder one last time, before stepping out into the chaotic and enigmatic world she had yet to explore.

A degree of fear overwhelmed her and she slouched against the red brick wall at her back.

No. She refused to be overcome by her emotions. Rising, Elizabeth walked with purpose to the end of the alley, where she poked her messy dirty-blonde head out into the open, and her jaw dropped.

Hundreds of people milled about, some in suits and holding briefcases, while others wore heels and scarlet knee-length dresses. Elizabeth gaped up at the massive skyscrapers and blinking lights. A flashing sign to her left read: "Showboat! Coming Soon!" in monstrous capital letters. Above it, lit up in red and gold, was a magnificent billboard: Ziegfield Theatre.

The name struck a cord that resonated deep in Elizabeth's heart. Her mother used to perform there. Suddenly, she knew exactly where she was. Broadway, the heart of New York City.

Elizabeth felt very, very, small; her heart leapt to her throat. Crouched on a side street, awestruck by the colossal number of people surrounding her, she seemed invisible.

A man walking past in a pinstriped business suit shifted the position of his professional black briefcase and nearly clipped Elizabeth's quaint nose. Luckily, she had the good sense to step back. Not so luckily, stepping back forced her onto a bulky sheet someone had left in the alley. Her arms pinwheeled, and she stumbled back into a garbage bin.

Steeling her nerve, Elizabeth pushed forward, plunging into the stream of men and women who were going about their daily lives, unaware that she had recently escaped from the basement of a foreclosed bar.

And yet, she couldn't breathe a word to anyone. As great as the urge was to find a sympathetic police officer to tell her story to, she knew the bar was illegal. After all, Mike still worked there, and he wasn't all bad. He was kind to her in times of sadness, he brought her food and the occasional new blouse when she needed it, he noticed her when nobody else did.

Elizabeth realized just then the depth of her relationship with Mike. He was the closest thing she'd had to a father in...a long time. She couldn't ruin his career, albeit an illegal one. She owed him that much.

Still deep in thought, she glanced upwards as she passed under another billboard. What she read froze her in place, eliciting frustrated curses from those walking past. Illuminated from the darkening sky by blinking twinkle lights, a poster read:

A Midnight Waltz: Starring Mary Reed!
Except the 'Reed' was scratched out. In its place, was handwritten in thick pen, the name 'Ann-Martine'.

Elizabeth had temporarily forgotten that - besides attempting to win the favor of Mr. Reinback - her mother lived in the outside world. She had a job, although from the looks of it, her career was heading downhill. A sort of guilty pleasure took root in Elizabeth's chest. It was somehow satisfying that Mary Reed, the cause of her aching feet and misery, was not doing well in the hectic, ever-changing world of show business.

A man's angry shout propelled her forward and slightly sideways into a mound of cardboard boxes and wooden crates packed against a red brick wall stained white with old advertisements. Elizabeth peered around the boxes cautiously, eyes peeled for any sign of movement from farther down the alley. Determining that this was as safe as she was going to get, she yawned and nestled herself among the boxes to sleep.

Elizabeth woke to the obnoxious sound of a taxi horn honking full-blast. She covered her ears with the dirty brown palms of her hands and stuck her head between her legs to block out the noise. On the pavement at her feet was a scrap of silvery metal, about the size of a saucer. How she avoided noticing it the previous night was a mystery. She uncovered her ears and brushed her new treasure off. Elizabeth stared at her reflection in the polished steel.

Her once lovely hair was caked with dirt and was squashed on one side from her awkward resting position. Knowing, melancholy brown eyes looked back at her, taking in all they could, as if this were the last time they would look upon her. Her white blouse was no longer white, but an ashy gray that reminded Elizabeth of heavy rainfall, and large tear ran down the length of her skirt, revealing the darker brown layers underneath. Tucking the metal into the pouch at her waist, Elizabeth stood and stretched, surveying her surroundings. The alley was nothing of note, it appeared the same as any other alley, except, of course, the one concealing the Speakeasy.

Emerging from her hiding place, Elizabeth walked out onto the bustling New York streets with no particular destination in mind. She enjoyed merely being able to walk freely through the streets. Suddenly, a monstrous BANG echoed through the streets. Everyone crouched to the ground, covering their heads with anything they had.

"Gunshot!" someone yelled.

"Take cover!" another shouted.

A child's scream rolled across the usually bustling streets, now stilled in fear. Elizabeth straightened, much to the shock of the startled men and women around her. A sort of rage induced haze fell over her. Too much of her own childhood was ruined, she wouldn't let it happen to anyone else. A second shot rang out, followed by another terrified cry. It seemed to be coming from a few buildings away, a dirty stone apartment building that looked as if it could do with a good cleaning.

Elizabeth raced towards where the believed the sound was, dodging pedestrians and leaping over anything that obstructed her path. Her vision narrowed to a thin slit as she bounded past a car. Time seemed to freeze as she turned the brass doorknob on the ugly beige door. Inside she saw a young boy, maybe five years old, backing away from an overweight, scruffy man wielding a small pistol. There was a crazed, angry fire in his eye, one that betrayed his deteriorating mental state. He wore only dress shoes, suspenders with crimson straps, and he held a glowing bronze cigar in his mouth.

"This doesn't concern you," he growled through gritted teeth. "This is between me and my son."

The boy let out a weak whimper. The man fired once more into the wall next to the door. Elizabeth noticed two other holes nearby, and felt a modicum of relief when she realized the boy wasn't injured.

"Sir, if I may-"

"You may not." The gunman snarled.

In an instant, Elizabeth snatched the boy's child-sized hand, and pushed open the door, emerging onto the rapidly clearing street. Behind her, she heard a few choice curses thrown at her as she ran. The boy tried to keep up as best he could, but stumbled. Elizabeth bent and scooped him up just as a bullet pierced the tender muscle on her leg. Another hit just next to her lower spine. The force sent her sprawling on the white painted asphalt crosswalk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the child run across the street, only to melt into the crowd.

A police siren wailed and multiple sets of tires screeched to a halt just behind her. Black leather boots stopped next to her face and someone shook her shoulder. Elizabeth thought she heard someone call for help, but her ears felt like they were filled with cotton. She tried to move, and her body screamed in agonized protest. Seeing grew harder as her sight blurred around the edges, gradually advancing towards the center. Hot liquid soaked through her blouse and pooled on the pavement. Blood filled her mouth and trickled out the corner of her lip. Black dots filled her vision, and memories poured into her mind.

A flash of her father playing with her in the yard as her mother looked on. Six-year-old Elizabeth was in her church outfit, a light pink jumper with a white headband and black flats with tiny bows on the toe. She stood on Oliver Reed's toes as they danced on the green grass under a clear blue sky to a song that was playing from inside the kitchen window. Every so often, the record would skip where it was scratched.
The scene shifted to another day. This time, rain splattered the windowpanes. Elizabeth's was curled on the couch in the living room. Her silky hair rested on Mary Reed's chest. A soft hand gently caressed the top of Elizabeth's head. The sound of her mother's breathing filled Elizabeth's ears, and she slowly drifted to sleep.
Next, it was the day after her father left them. Mary stormed through the house, throwing everything that contained a trace of Oliver into a box, from photographs to books to dishes, and therefore erasing all physical memory of him.
The flashbacks picked up pace, skipping to Elizabeth's first day in the Speakeasy. She was confused. She couldn't understand what her mother was doing. She sat in her bare, undecorated room on her cot and sobbed for hours, until Mary told her to shush. That only caused her to cry harder until sadness overwhelmed her and she fell into unconsciousness.
Her first night working at the bar. Her second. Her thirtieth. Her one hundred twenty-seventh. Her five hundredth. She danced from table to table with a facade of contentment. She pretended to play the part of a happy waitress, when under the false cover she longed for something much, much more.
The day she tried to escape. She followed her mother up the stairs, but faltered and caused the board to creak. She was sent back with a strong warning and an unforgettable look of disdain.
The day she did escape. The moment of revelation when she turned the key in the lock. Her first breath of fresh air in years. The liberation of being able to do what she wanted, instead of what someone else wanted of her.
When she saved the boy.
Now Elizabeth lay on the street, broken and lost. She tried to form a coherent thought, but found that any words she had, had already fled to some dark corner of her brain. Thinking became impossible just the same as moving and speaking.
All of the strength she had left abandoned her.
Her senses faded.
Her mind slowed.
Her breathing stopped.
All that remained, was a dying, flesh and bone shell of Elizabeth Reed.

The next morning, headlines decorated every newsstand in the city. Who was the mystery girl? Why did she save the child? Where did she come from?

Mary Reed knocked on the door of one such newspaper, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and telling a sob story about how her daughter had gone missing years ago, and how when she saw the front cover news, she just knew that it was her Elizabeth.

She went from paper to paper explaining her story. Many citizens felt so sorry towards her, they donated money for a funeral. Meanwhile, Mary's throne of fame grew taller and taller with each new story.

As the day of the funeral approached, Ms. Reed braced herself to answer any questions, and to accept the hundreds of apologies that would be offered to her.

When she stepped out of her apartment, an unpleasant sprinkle of rain began. The funeral march would begin at the crosswalk that marked the location of her daughter's untimely death, and would continue on to the cemetery.

Hundreds of onlookers came out in the rain to appreciate the act of courage performed by Elizabeth, the boy she saved included. He was now being cared for by a family member. A false tear inched it's way down Mary's face as she walked at the head of the parade after the carriage containing the coffin. She simply couldn't understand how her acting career was failing. After all, she had somehow tricked an entire city into believing she cared for her daughter. Hopefully after this she would be back in business.

As the crowd moved along the cobblestone route, all Mary could think about is how much she didn't care. Certainly Elizabeth was her daughter by blood, but did that mean she must be loved? The sprinkle of rain turned into a downpour. Wonderful. Mary thought, must I do this in the rain as well?

Hundreds of boots sent up sprays of water when they splashed down. As they approached the cemetery, the water lessened until it was just mist, although the overcast sky suggested more rain was to come.

The rest of the proceedings existed as a blur to Mary. She accepted apologies, sprinkled a handful of mud over a box in the ground, and faked a few tears. And yet, when she was mostly alone at the grave under the willow, save for the gravediggers, she realized that some her tears had become real.