She sat at the bar, staring into the brown liquid in the glass before her. Her eyes were glazed over with the tears – the only indication that she was any more than a shell - that had not yet spilt down her pale cheeks. Her hair was tangled and knotted, the expensive dress she wore, creased. Yet, despite her current appearance, she possessed an obvious air of elegance about her and it was clear that, at a point in the evening, she had been the very epitome of class and sophistication. The opposite of what one would expect to find in a dirty little back-street bar. A true ‘uptown girl’.
The only other customers were a group of middle-aged men in suits occupying a small booth in the corner - all far too intoxicated to consider this woman may be anything more than a game that got more exciting with each wolf-whistle and cat-call ignored.
The barman stood leaning against a dirty wall, far away from the woman. His grey face holding dilated pupils above large purple bruises.
As she slowly moved her hand towards her drink, the the tears finally fell and she grabbed her glass, throwing back her head and downing its contents. She then stood and glided, gracefully out of the door.
The next day, press surrounded the home of a well-loved socialite, all hoping for a glimpse of the body for their front page.
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