You In The End

“You need this job. You need this job,” Sam muttered to herself under her breath, the words like a mantra as she pushed through the heavy metal back door of the restaurant. The instant she stepped outside, the humid night air hit her face, thick and suffocating. The rancid stench from the overflowing dumpster to her right curled into her nostrils like smoke, sour and pungent, turning her stomach. She gagged instinctively and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. God, she would never get used to that smell. No matter how many times she came out here for a stolen breath, a few seconds of silence, or just to blink away the tears she refused to let fall in front of customers, that stench always greeted her like a slap in the face, a grim reminder of where she was… and how far she had yet to go. She stared up at the sky, barely visible through the light pollution and alley grime, and whispered again—more tired now, more desperate: “You need this job.” Because giving up wasn’t an option. And no matter how awful it smelled back here, failure reeked worse. She dipped her hand into the pocket of her tiny apron and brought out a crumpled box of cigarettes and a half-dead lighter. With a flick and a spark, the flame caught, and she lit one up, inhaling deeply. The smoke burned its way down her throat, sharp and familiar, before she exhaled slowly, watching the thin gray trail curl and disappear into the night breeze. For a moment, the silence was almost soothing. Almost. This wasn’t the life she envisioned for herself. Not even close. Not even in her worst-case version of the future did she see herself here, working late nights at an upscale restaurant, wearing a stiff uniform and a strained smile, serving food she couldn’t afford to eat to people who barely looked her in the eye. It was a five-star restaurant, the kind with marble countertops, imported chandeliers, and a wine list longer than most people’s rent agreements. The kind where chefs used words she had to Google and plated meals so tiny and delicate they looked like they belonged in a museum, not a dining room. And yet, for all its elegance, the place reeked of something uglier beneath the shine. The male customers were mostly entitled perverts, their eyes lingering too long, their compliments laced with suggestions. Some of them wore wedding bands. Most wore arrogance like cologne. She had learned to dodge their wandering hands and bite her tongue through crude jokes, pretending the power imbalance didn’t make her skin crawl. The women were no better. Dressed in gowns that cost more than Sam’s monthly wages, they wore permanent scowls like a fashion accessory. Cold, dismissive, performatively bored. As if acknowledging her existence might smudge their polish or stain their status. They spoke to her in clipped tones, rolled their eyes if she didn’t appear in five seconds, and treated her like an inconvenience rather than a person. And every time they came in, every time she floated from table to table with a trained expression and aching feet, she understood a little more clearly just how taunting the rich could be. They flaunted luxury without thought, tossed out hundred-dollar tips like crumbs, and laughed loudly over problems Sam would’ve killed to have. A chipped manicure. A delayed shipment. A partner who bought the wrong Bentley model. It wasn’t just the money. It was the way they carried it. The way they existed, like the world had always bent for them, and always would. Sam, on the other hand, had learned to fold herself smaller just to survive it. She didn’t hate them, not exactly. But she hated what being around them reminded her of, what she never had, and the growing fear that she might be stuck in this life forever. That she might never get out. You need this job. The last table before her break had been a group of three middle-aged men and a woman—each dressed to kill. Well-tailored suits, shoes that looked like they’d never touched a dirty street, and expensive wristwatches that flashed a little too eagerly under the restaurant’s golden lighting. At first glance, they fit right in. The type of clientele who comes in expecting impeccable service and champagne without asking for the price. But Sam had been working here long enough to know when something didn’t sit right. She’d developed a kind of sixth sense for people who were real, who were playing a part, and who was one wrong move away from trouble. And this group? They didn’t look like old money. They looked like people trying to look like old money. Too polished. Too deliberate. The suits were flawless, sure, but worn like costumes, not second skins. Their shoes were expensive, but the way one of the men nervously adjusted his cuff every few minutes, or how the woman kept glancing over her shoulder instead of at the wine menu… it screamed discomfort. Not elegance. They either didn’t have a problem showing off too much… or they were trying very hard to impress someone. Or worse, trying to distract someone. Set a stage. Play a role. Knock someone off. That last thought sat uneasily in her gut, colder than the night breeze. Sam didn’t deal with conspiracies or overthink, she didn’t have the time to. But instincts? Instincts were survival. And something about them sent her alarms quietly ringing. Still, she tamped the feeling down and gave them the same stiff smile she gave everyone else. Took their order. Poured their wine. Pretended not to notice the tension thickening the air around their table like smog. And now, standing behind the restaurant, back against the brick, her cigarette burning low between two fingers, she exhaled sharply and muttered to herself: “Either way, I don’t care.” The smoke danced away with the breeze, but the unease lingered like the taste of ash on her tongue. She’d learned not to get involved. Not to ask questions. She had enough on her plate to try to keep the lights on and her life from collapsing. Still… Something about them felt like a storm waiting to break. And deep down, she had a sinking feeling that when it did, she might not be able to stay out of its way. The back door creaked open, spilling a shaft of warm kitchen light into the dark alley. Nora, one of her colleagues, leaned halfway out, her frizzy ponytail bobbing, and her apron smudged with something suspiciously red. “There you are!” she said, slightly out of breath. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Sam didn’t flinch. She took another slow drag from her cigarette, exhaled like she had all the time in the world, and rolled her eyes. “Well, congrats, Nora. You found me.” Nora hesitated at the door, clearly nervous. “I, uh… I need help—” “Nope.” Sam cut her off sharply, holding up a hand like a stop sign. “I’m on break, Nora. Twenty minutes. Not ten. Not until someone panics. Twenty.” She tapped the ashes off the cigarette, her tone flat but firm. Nora stepped fully outside now, wringing her hands in her apron. “Sam, please. The place is full to the brim. We've got orders flying left and right, and Jason just knocked over a tray of oysters on table four. The kitchen’s yelling, customers are yelling, I’m two seconds away from having a breakdown, and I really, really need someone who knows what they’re doing.” Sam closed her eyes and let her head tilt back against the brick wall, the cool stone grounding her. Every bone in her body screamed to stay right where she was, to let the world burn on the other side of that door for just a few more minutes. But she could already feel the guilt worming its way into her chest, that nagging pull that came when you knew someone was drowning, and you had the life raft. She looked at Nora, who was now biting her bottom lip, eyes wide with panic. “Just one table,” Nora added, her voice softening. Sam sighed, her annoyance fading just a little. Nora was her closest colleague, and in a place like this, that meant something. They’d started working together almost a year ago and had been looking out for each other ever since. Covering shifts, splitting tips, sharing vents and jokes in the cramped workers' bathroom. It wasn’t a deep friendship, but it was real, the kind built on long shifts and quiet solidarity. So even though Sam wanted nothing more than to finish her cigarette in peace, she couldn’t ignore Nora’s plea. “What table is that?” Sam asked, crushing the last of her cigarette beneath the heel of her shoe, a curl of smoke still drifting in the air. “Table twelve. Thank you so much, Sam. Seriously, I owe you,” Nora said quickly, already backing through the door and vanishing into the chaos of the restaurant before Sam could change her mind. Great. Table twelve. Of course, it had to be that one, the same group of fake-ass wannabes she’d served just before her break. They were still there.