Anna

Chapter 4

The bus, spewing a thick cloud of acrid black smoke, pulled away with a strained rumble, leaving Anna standing amidst the deafening, almost tangible silence of the Australian outback. She remained on the roadside, clutching her only bag of belongings. All around stretched scorched brown earth, sparsely covered in tough, thorny scrub, and directly in front of her, like a piece of rusty iron cast into the dust, stood a building made of blackened corrugated metal.

Above the crooked door hung a faded sign: "The Solid Line." The name felt like a mockery—here, life had long ago turned into one continuous, endless, viscous drudgery. The air was saturated with a blend of diesel, burnt grease, and stale cigarette smoke, which seemed to have seeped into the very soil, the wooden walls, and the lungs of everyone who had ever crossed the threshold. The heavy air hung in a dense layer, pressing down on her shoulders with almost physical weight.

Anna pushed the heavy, creaking door. Inside, a dense, stuffy twilight reigned. A heavy cocktail of cheap whiskey, moldy beer, sweat, and cheap tobacco hit her nose, making her head spin for a moment. The bar was filled with the hulking figures of truck drivers in oil-stained overalls. They sat at wobbly tables, laughing hoarsely, cursing, and trading lewd jokes, paying no attention to the girl who had entered. To them, she was merely part of the landscape, another element of the interior, as inanimate as the chipped counter or the lopsided chair in the corner.

Behind the bar, lazily wiping a sticky glass with a dirty, grease-gray rag, stood a man who could only be Barney. Huge, with a crimson face overgrown with coarse gray stubble and a belly that seemed to live a life of its own, resting against the edge of the bar counter. His fingers, thick and clumsy, moved over the glass with a strange, almost hypnotic methodism.

"So, you're Amanda's niece, then?" he growled without even looking up, continuing to scrub the same spot on the glass with stubborn persistence. "Two hours late. Did the bus break down? Next time, walk if you want to work for me. Time is valued here no less than fuel. And I’m not a charity foundation to wait for latecomers."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barney," Anna’s voice trembled, but she forced herself to look him straight in the eyes, trying to hide the tremor in her hands as they gripped her bag strap. "The road was more difficult than I thought. I didn't mean to be late."

Barney finally looked up. His eyes, swimming in fat, lazily but predatorily ran over Anna’s figure. There wasn't a drop of sympathy in that gaze, only a cold, calculating interest in a new labor unit. He was assessing her not as a person, but as a tool that would either work or be discarded.

"That door over there behind the kitchen," he nodded with a heavy chin toward a dark, narrow corridor that reeked of mustiness. "There’s a cot. You'll find bed linen in the cupboard, if the rats haven't eaten it. Wake up at five tomorrow. Your job is the kitchen. The dishwasher gets clogged every other day, so don’t whine, clean it by hand. And the floor in the hall. After closing. The waitresses will show you how things work. Now, get going, don't be an eyesore to the customers. You're not here for beauty, but for work."

The tiny room Anna was assigned was the size of a closet. A small window near the ceiling, covered in cobwebs, peeling walls, and a dampness that made her want to cry. Anna sank onto the edge of the mattress, which sagged to the floor, and listened to the hum of the bar through the wall. She could hear loud thumps of fists on tables, the clatter of broken glass, and hysterical laughter. She realized that this room was her only sanctuary, the only place in this cruel world where she could be alone for even a moment. She remembered the cozy evenings in the Sydney suburbs, the scent of her mother's pie, and the warmth of her father's garage. Here, in this stuffy concrete box, she felt like a fish tossed onto the shore, forced to learn how to breathe in a completely alien, aggressive environment.

The next morning, as soon as dawn painted the sky, Anna started her shift. The kitchen of "The Solid Line" was the embodiment of any health inspector’s nightmare. Mountains of dirty plates, grease-caked frying pans, a floor sticky with spilled beer and fat. She began to work, holding back nausea. She had to scrub charred food residue off baking sheets that hadn't been washed since the bar opened, it seemed. The water from the tap flowed in a thin, rusty trickle, struggling to break through the layers of limescale. The soap smelled of some chemical sludge that made the skin on her hands instantly red and itchy, covering them in tiny cracks.

When she first timidly stepped out of the kitchen into the hall to wipe the tables, two women emerged to meet her. One was large, wearing war-paint makeup with a hard, scanning gaze; the other was younger, with a disgruntled grimace and fingers yellowed by nicotine. These were Cheryl and Didi—the local queens of this dive. They looked at Anna not just with hostility, but with open, vicious defiance, as if she had invaded their sovereign territory.

"Hey, sweetie," Cheryl blocked her path, hands on her hips. "Where do you think you're heading? This isn't your zone of responsibility."

"I wanted to wipe the tables, like Mr. Barney said..." Anna began, but her voice sounded uncertain; she tried not to look them in the eyes.

Didi laughed ringingly, and the sound struck like a whip, cutting through the morning silence.

"Barney told you to work, not to make eyes at our customers! Have you seen your face in a mirror? Too clean for our pigsty. This is no place for delicate flowers used to cleanliness."

Cheryl stepped closer, and Anna felt the sharp scent of cheap perfume.

"Listen here," Cheryl hissed, digging her tenacious fingers into Anna’s shoulder. "Truckers come here to spend their last money to gawk at our cleavage and get a dose of flattery, not to look at innocent little faces. You won't be competition for us. Your place is at the sink, elbow-deep in filth. If you ever show your face in the hall during working hours while there are customers, I'll shove this dirty rag down your throat. Understand? We’re earning a living here, and you’re just random trash that washed up on our shores. Turn around and get back to your sink before I change my mind and toss you out the door without your things."

Anna felt heat flush her cheeks from the resentment and humiliation, but the fear of their naked, animal aggression proved stronger. She knew there was no place for justice or complaints here. She just nodded, looking at the floor. Her heart was hammering in her throat, but she forced herself not to show how terrified she was. She understood that any attempt to object would result in her being thrown out onto the street in this endless desert. She couldn't afford the luxury of pride while she didn't have a cent to her name.

"That's a good girl," Cheryl pushed her, and Anna almost lost her balance. "March to the kitchen. And make sure the dishes shine like in a five-star hotel. And forget about the hall. Understand?"

Left alone in the hot, smoke-filled room, Anna began to scrub a plate with fury. It felt like she was in hell. All around, pots were banging, fat was hissing on an old stove, and behind the wall, drunken shouting and laughter drifted in. The clientele was specific: drivers exhausted by long journeys, looking not so much for food as for a way to forget themselves in a glass of cheap alcohol, and local idlers whose interests were limited to pool and gossip. It seemed the walls had absorbed thousands of stories of failure and broken lives. Each guest here left behind a piece of their heavy, unsettled life.

Every minute in the kitchen was a torture. The horrific state of the bar, dirty footprints on the floor, patrons spitting in the corners—it all pressed down on her, making her feel like a hunted animal. Or rather, a small creature. She constantly wanted to wash her hands, wanted to breathe something other than this stagnant air. She felt her movements gradually becoming mechanical, stripped of any meaning other than the process of survival itself. She was locked in this cycle. Day, dirty dishes, shouting; night, a mop. And so, every God-given day, without hope for a kind word. A day off only on Sundays.

She washed the greasy dishes, washing away, along with the fat, her former life, her dreams of an economist’s career, her pride, and even her tears—which no longer flowed; they simply were no more.

At night, when the last drunk regular slammed the door with a bang, she would step out into the empty, reeking hall. This was the hardest time. Under the dim light of lamps attracting night insects, she would take a mop and begin the long, exhausting journey along the "solid line" of her new existence. In the ringing silence of the empty hall, only the splash of water in the bucket and her heavy, ragged breathing could be heard.

She saw her reflection in the mirror above the bar—pale, exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, but with a flicker of light still glowing in them. She knew this job wasn't the end. Anna was simply waiting for her hour. And every second, while scrubbing the floor, she dreamed of how one day she would walk out of these doors, leaving behind this bar, Cheryl, Didi, and Barney, and their foul-smelling little world. She imagined how she would straighten her back, how she would breathe in fresh air, and how she would never again let anyone back her into a corner. She would survive here, even if she had to turn into flint to do it. She would work, she would endure, and she would save every coin, but she wouldn't let this place break her soul completely. Now, "The Solid Line" was her only reality, but deep down, she still remained the Anna who knew her worth and the price of her future. She was broken by circumstances, but not defeated by them. Anna gripped the mop handle tightly, gritted her teeth, and continued to work.