Going To Alice Monologue

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I wake in the night drenched in a cold sweat. Another repeat of last night’s dream, only this time, I don’t feel the need to run to Alice. Instead, I roll onto my side, curling my legs to meet my chest, and stare out into the bleak night. The thick clouds hide the moon tonight. Nevertheless, an eerie glow from the traffic's headlights illuminates the fog that rises to my window. The nightmare doesn't hinder my slumber, Angelo’s demand of buying short dresses does. After taking a deep sigh, I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. My hands slide over the soft fabric of my nightgown and stop at the top of my legs where my fingertips trace the outlines of the scars. I can feel each ridged, each crevice crisscross one another. Never can …show more content…

“Can you afford anything from here?” “How about we come and get you if we need help,” Alice replies in annoyance. The woman scoffs. A phone by the cash register shrills, saving us from this awkward interaction. “Wait here,” she orders, before sashaying back to her post to answer the phone. “It’s like that scene from Pretty Woman,” I whisper to Alice. “You know the part where they won’t let her buy the rich clothes?” Alice snickers. The French woman glares at us in disgust. Even as I allow my gaze to travel around the store, I feel shame in doing so. The entire store gleams with elegance and grace. I guess I can’t blame her for the pretentious behaviour, Alice and I look like we emerged from a charity bin. My gaze falls to my scuffed, black trainers; I should have removed them at the door as to not dirty the white carpet. Everything is laced with gold, including the white wallpaper with thin streaks of gold thread winding through it, the cash register, and even the phone. All the finishings around the store have gold mouldings, the clothes racks, and even the hangers, all drenched in gold. No wonder the clothes are …show more content…

How am I to convince her I can afford at least one dress, even though I'm not dressed the part. I extract the credit card from my pocket. Maybe if she notices the shiny black card in my hand, she will at least allow me to peek at the clothes from afar. Her eyes travel down to my hand until they fall onto the card, whereupon she tilts her head to read the name. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh,” she says in a soft voice, “I didn’t realise you worked for Angelo. Well, this changes everything.” The guardian of the clothes grants us

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