Her name is Lauriane

« The street is my domain, just like the air I breathe. No man, no shout, no breeze can touch me. »

Lauriane's Point of View

I tapped the sponge with almost mechanical precision on my cheeks, the powder settling in a fine layer like an invisible veil, a light armor. The reflection in the mirror showed an image I knew too well. It hadn't changed. My gaze fixed on the taxi driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. He looked a little tired, but mostly insignificant. His eyes were searching for something, but found only the shadow of what they hoped for. A tired man, crushed by life.

After a few blocks, the taxi finally stopped, its wheels screeching slightly on the rough pavement. The engine died with a sigh.

— Ma'am, we've arrived, he said, hesitating, as if waiting for a reaction from me.

I didn't answer. I had nothing to say. With a sharp motion, I tossed the bills onto his seat before slamming the door with calculated coldness.

— Excuse me, ma'am! he called after me. You forgot your book!

I barely stopped, but enough to extend my hand. He handed me 34 Shades to Serve. I grabbed it with a quick motion, not bothering to thank him. A fleeting thought about Naël, the idiot. A faint smile crossed my lips. Then I turned on my heel.

The sound of my heels clicking on the pavement echoed like a distant rhythm in the heat of the afternoon. The air was heavy, saturated with smells of tar and pollution, but I didn't even care. The street was my domain, just like the warm scent of the wind that mingled with the laughter of the men watching me.

The street leading to the building, I knew it too well. I'd been living there for a while, amidst dirty looks and street whispers. The men were like shadows lurking around me, consuming the space with their unasked-for desire. But I had nothing to offer them. Nothing they expected. I was above that. I always was.

I paused for a moment to glance at my reflection in a store window, admiring the shape of my figure. My heels clicked sharply on the asphalt, resounding through the air like a signal.

— Hey Lauriane! You're smoking hot, come have fun with us! yelled a guy on a motorcycle, his smile too wide.

I didn't even turn. Each shout, each word from these strangers no longer reached me. I ignored them all. The street was mine.

Other voices followed, all similar, all as predictable:

— Forget those idiots, come here, called another from his balcony.

— Lauriane, I love you! yelled a kid, who probably didn't even know what that word meant.

I let out a small, mocking smile, a breeze brushing my face. These men, these kids, didn't understand a thing. They thought I saw them, but all I saw was a soulless backdrop around me. I was too far. Too above. But they kept at it, louder and louder.

I slowed my pace a little, taking a moment to watch their confused faces. A sway of my hips, a glance over my shoulder, and I already knew: tonight, I'd go back home knowing that all these guys over there would just be distorted memories. Like all men.

I reached the building's door. Before opening it, a voice called out to me.

— Lauriane! Long time no see!

I paused for a fraction of a second before looking up. Trent. I'd seen him hanging around the neighborhood countless times, always with that pitiful attitude, the kind of guy who never quite got it. His gaze was a mix of hope and despair.

I stared at him, showing no trace of my contempt.

— Well, did you win the lottery or something? I asked with a falsely curious smile.

He blushed, unsure how to respond. Poor fool.

— No… he finally said, his beaten-dog look amusing me more than it irritated me.

I smiled inwardly before saying out loud:

— Yeah, I thought so. You look like you stepped out of some low-budget rap video. Go buy some clothes. Maybe even a life.

I made sure to say it loud enough so the others would hear, so they could repeat it. I didn't care. I didn't need him. Or any of them. They were just background noise. I was above that.

I turned my back without a glance, and the slam of the door behind me sounded like a verdict. But for a split second, I wondered if I'd been too harsh. A fleeting moment of doubt crossed my mind, but it vanished as quickly as it came. I didn't have time for that. Coldness was my armor, and that's all that mattered.

♧

It was 7 p.m. when my friends showed up. Myriam and Paméla. Two symbols of Badangels, each in her own way. They were young, beautiful, and like me, they took whatever they could from life. But unlike me, they were barely aware of their own emptiness, too caught up in their appearances and immediate desires. I still didn't know how they managed to pass their high school exams.

— Hey Lauriane! Myriam shouted, her smile stretching ear to ear.

— How's it going, beautiful? Paméla asked, always a little too enthusiastic for my liking.

I looked at both of them and sighed. Their high-pitched voices were unbearable, but they were always within reach. They were useful, and that's all that mattered.

Myriam, with her red hair and generous curves, always a little too forward, and Paméla, calmer, more slender, with long hair and a tanned complexion. She reminded me a bit of Naël, but more… tangible. More intense. A little less smooth.

As I watched them, I thought of Naël. That girl who lived in her own reality, as if she still believed in fairy tales. An idiot. A wave of frustration washed over me. I'd stopped dreaming long ago. She had no idea what life really was. Me? I'd understood it too early.

— Did you do my laundry? I asked bluntly, pushing thoughts of that idiot Naël away, heading for the fridge.

Paméla, always full of energy, flopped onto the couch, her radiant smile still in place.

— You know, Lauriane, sometimes I wonder if you're messing with us, she said, her sharp eyes staring straight at me.

I looked at her, an eyebrow raised, before replying in a dry tone:

— Messing with you? No, I'm doing you a favor. You don't get it, but I am.

Paméla shrugged while Myriam seemed lost in thought, her gaze drifting. Maybe she knew what I meant, but she was too afraid to say it aloud.

One last look, and I let them argue. I had no patience left for these endless discussions. One was saying she needed to get her act together and work. It was the least she could do, given all the stuff I paid for: the apartment, the bills, the food, the Wi-Fi. Without me, they'd be lost. They knew it.

I didn't feel like sticking around for their petty fights. They were good at that, arguing over nonsense. I watched them for a moment, then left the scene behind, heading toward my room. The biggest one. That was only fair. The second one, they'd share. As for the third, it was full of my clothes. If they weren't happy, the door was wide open. They could leave. That wouldn't bother me.

I let them bicker, their voices becoming more and more indistinct from my room. It was always like this. Another evening among many: a little noise, a little crowd, and me, always a little farther away, like a spectator of my own existence.