Until We Burn

BILLIE

-APRIL 2011-

Aunt Caroline’s silver Volvo crunches over the gravel driveway. I clutch my drawing tighter against my chest, feeling the paper crinkle beneath my sweaty fingers. I spent all of art class on it—a portrait of Mum in her garden surrounded by her tea roses in various stages of bloom, their petals unfurling in shades of blush pink and buttery yellow. Mrs. Peterson, with her cat-eye glasses perched on her nose, had leaned close to examine it, the scent of peppermint on her breath as she declared it was the best work she’d seen from a Year 5 student in twenty years.

I can’t wait to show Mum.

I click my seatbelt free before the car fully stops. “Appreciate the lift, Aunt Caroline.”

Her eyes narrow at the darkened windows. “Hold on a second. Why are the curtains drawn in the middle of the day?”

“Mum and her headaches.” I shrug. “She’s probably resting.”

”Let me come inside with you, just to check that everything is—”

“We’re good.” I’m out the car and shouldering my bag before she can finish her sentence, gravel crunching under my trainers as I bolt to the door.

I watch Caroline’s car disappear down the street, then face the house. The front door swings open at my touch. Mum never bothers with locks during the day, despite Dad’s old lectures about safety.

But Dad’s lectures don’t matter now anyway. Not since he packed his bags for her.

“Mum?” My voice bounces off the walls as I step inside. “Are you home? Mrs. Peterson thinks my drawing could win the school’s art competition!”

No answer.

Something’s off. The air hangs heavy, like the house is holding its breath.

The afternoon light filters weakly through the closed curtains, casting everything in murky shadows. I drop my rucksack by the stairs and move deeper into the house, my trainers silent on the carpet.

“Mum? Are you sleeping?”

I check the kitchen. Empty. The living room. Empty.

A sound from upstairs—soft, almost imperceptible. A creak.

Like weight shifting on floorboards.

I don’t know why my heart starts beating faster as I climb the stairs, my drawing still clutched in one hand.

“Mum?”

Her bedroom door is slightly ajar. Just a crack of darkness beyond.

I push it open.

The creak is louder now. Regular. Rhythmic.

Swing. Creak. Swing. Creak.

And then I look up.

My mother hangs from the ceiling beam, a rope around her neck, her face purple and swollen and her eyes bulging and vacant and staring directly at me—

I scream.

The drawing falls from my hands, fluttering to the floor.

And everything goes black.

-2022-

I wake up screaming.

My hands claw at my throat—the phantom rope that isn’t there.

The dream again. The nightmare.

Twelve years later, and my brain still drags me back to that moment. Still makes me relive it again and again.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 6:30 AM. The alarm will go off in five minutes anyway. Might as well get up.

My hands shake as I sit up, the familiar anxiety settling into my chest like an unwelcome guest. I fumbled for the pill bottle I kept in my nightstand drawer—the anxiety medication Dr. Saunders prescribed a few years ago. The pills don’t stop the nightmares, but they help me function after them.

I dry-swallow one, grimacing at the bitter taste, and swing my legs out of bed.

My flat is small—a studio in Wexley, nothing fancy, but it’s mine. I moved out of Dad’s house the day I turned eighteen. I couldn’t stand another minute of Helen’s passive-aggressive comments or Rose’s cruelty disguised as sisterly concern.

Pitta, my lovely tuxedo cat, stretches on the windowsill and meows at me. I’m late with her breakfast.

“I know, I know. Give me a minute.”

The anxiety pill starts to work, dulling the panicky feeling. I feed Pitta, then stumble into the bathroom for a shower.

The hot water helps. It always does. I stand under the spray longer than I should, letting it wash away memories from the nightmare, the phantom smell of that room, the image I can never quite scrub from my brain.

By seven-thirty, I’m dressed for work. Black jeans, white t-shirt, the ugly green apron I have to wear at the café. My dark hair is still damp, hanging past my shoulders. I don’t bother with much makeup. Nobody notices the café staff anyway.

I grab my bag, give Pitta one last scratch behind the ears, and head out.

The morning commute to the café is a twenty-minute bus ride. I spend it staring out the window, trying not to think about the dream, about Mum, about the fact that today marked exactly twelve years since—

No. Not thinking about it.

The café is busy when I walk in at eight. The morning rush is already in full swing. Businesspeople grabbing coffee before work, students camping out with laptops, tourists consulting maps over pastries.

“You’re late,” Jonathan says as I walk in.

My boss. Forty-something. Recently divorced. And very interested in standing too close when he’s talking to me.

“Two minutes,” I say. “Sorry.”

“My office. After the rush.”

My stomach drops. “Is something wrong?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just need to discuss some things. Monthly performance review.”

I nod, anxiety spiking again despite the pill. I’ve worked here for almost two years. My performance is fine. Better than fine.

I smile, make change, and wipe down all the tables on autopilot.

At eleven, the rush finally dies down. Jonathan appears at my elbow.

“Now’s good. My office.”

I follow him to the small room at the back, and he closes the door behind us.

“Sit,” he gestures to the chair across from his desk.

I sit, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. The anxiety medication had worn off. I should have brought the bottle.

Jonathan sits on the edge of his desk instead of behind it. Too close. His knee almost touches mine.

“Billie,” he starts, and something about his tone makes my skin crawl. “You’ve been with us almost two years now.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a good worker. Customers like you. You’re reliable.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve been thinking that you deserve a raise. Better shifts. Maybe even a management position.”

I should feel relieved, but every instinct screams wrong, wrong, wrong.

“That’s… that’s very generous.”

“I take care of people who take care of me.” His hand lands on my knee. Heavy. Possessive. “We could take care of each other, Billie.”

I stand up so fast the chair scrapes backwards. “I should get back to the—”

“Relax.” He stands too, blocking the door. “I’m just saying, we could have an arrangement. You’re a beautiful girl. I’m in a position to help your career. We both get what we want.”

“I don’t want that.”

“No?” He steps closer. “Think about it. Better pay, better hours. All you have to do is to… give me a hand. If you know what I mean.”

His hand reaches for my waist.

Instinct takes over.

I’ve taken self-defence classes after moving out of Dad’s house. Just to feel safer in the world.

My knee comes up hard and fast, connecting solidly with his groin.

Jonathan makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, doubling over.

“You fucking bitch—”

I grab my bag from where I’d left it by the door and run.

Behind me, Jonathan shouts. “You’re fired! You hear me? FIRED! And I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!”

I don’t stop running until I’m three blocks away, gasping for air, hands shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone.

Fired.

Rent is due in eight days.

I have maybe £400 in my account.

Rent is £750.

Fuck.

Back at my flat, I sit on the floor next to Pitta and try not to spiral.

Options. I need options.

I pull out my laptop and start searching: “Jobs in Wexley,” “Immediate hiring,” “Cash in hand work.”

Nothing. Or nothing that pays fast enough.

Retail positions want two weeks for background checks. Restaurants aren’t hiring. The one cleaning company that’s hiring pays £8 an hour. I’d need to work sixty hours in eight days to make rent.

I scroll desperately through page after page of job listings.

And then I saw it.

An advertisement, innocuous among the other listings:

“The Sinner Circle – Work from home. Set your own hours. Earn £100+ per night. Confident performers wanted.”

I click.

The website loads. It’s sleek, professional, surprisingly classy for what it is. An adult entertainment platform. Live streaming. Cam models.

My first instinct is to close the tab.

My second instinct is to read more.

“Earn money on your own terms. Safe, anonymous, empowering. Thousands of models worldwide. You control what you show, who you interact with, when you work.”

I look around my flat. At my computer with a decent, built-in webcam. At my small bedroom.

At Pitta, who is watching me with her usual judgmental expression.

“What do you think?” I ask her. “Am I crazy?”

She blinks slowly.

I look back at the screen. The website shows sample profiles. A lot of women are wearing lingerie, some wearing costumes, others are using masks. Some use strategic camera angles to hide their faces.

Anonymous.

Safe.

Or as safe as it can be.

I click “Model Sign-Up.”

The form is straightforward: Username, email, payment details, identification, consent agreements.

Username.

I look at Pitta again. Tuxedo cat. Black and white.

A cat. A bad girl doing something she probably shouldn’t.

I type: “BadKitten”

Available.

I fill out the rest of the form, barely reading the terms and conditions. Yes, I am over eighteen. Yes, I consent. And yes, I understand the risks.

Submit.

“Welcome to The Sinner Circle, BadKitten! Your profile is pending approval. We’ll email you within 24 hours.”

I close the laptop and look at Pitta.

“I think I just became a cam girl.”

She meows, unimpressed.

The approval email comes at 11 PM that night.

I spend the evening researching—what other models wore, how they interacted with viewers, what the top earners did differently. I take notes like I’m studying for an exam.

If I’m doing this, I’m going to do this right.

The next morning, I take the bus to the shopping district. I have one credit card with a £500 limit for emergencies.

This qualifies as an emergency.

First stop: A costume shop having a clearance sale. I find a high-quality blonde wig—long, wavy, completely unlike my natural dark hair. £45.

Second stop: A lingerie shop. Black lace sets, red silk, white cotton that looks innocent but suggestive. £120 total.

By the time I get home, I spent £195 and my hands are shaking again.

I set everything up in my bedroom. Testing the webcam and lighting, positioning my laptop so the background shows only my bed and a bit of the wall. Nothing identifiable. Nothing that can be traced back to me.

I put the wig on and adjust it until it looks natural. Then I apply heavier makeup than I usually wear. Dark eyes, red lips. And last but not least, my mask.

I look in the mirror.

Billie Hawthorne has disappeared.

BadKitten looks back at me.

I take a breath, log into The Sinner Circle, and create my first stream, titled “First Time – Be Gentle.”

I click “Go Live.”

For five minutes, nothing happens. Zero viewers.

I sit on my bed, feeling ridiculous in my blonde wig and mask and black lingerie, wondering if anyone would even—

Viewer count: 1

TheCollector has entered the chat.

My heart hammers.

A message appears in the chat box on the right side of the screen.

TheCollector (12:10 AM): Hello, beautiful. First time streaming?

BadKitten (12:11 AM): Yes. I’m nervous.

TheCollector (12:12 AM): Don’t be. You’re perfect.

Another viewer joins. Then another one.

But TheCollector was the very first. He sent the first tip—500 tokens, £50, just for saying hello.

TheCollector (12:14 AM): That smile is worth every penny.

I don’t know who is behind that username, and I probably never will.

My first stream lasts two hours and I’ve earned £340.

Enough for this month’s rent, with some leftover.

When I finally log off at 2 AM, I sit in the darkness of my flat, still wearing the wig and mask, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Power.

Control.

For the first time since I was ten years old and found my mother hanging in her bedroom, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I can survive in this world.

I feed Pitta, who has watched the entire stream with extreme judgment from her perch on the windowsill.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her. “We do what we have to do.”

She turns her back on me, tail swishing.

I laugh—tired, slightly hysterical, but real.

Tomorrow, I’ll do it again. And the next day. And the day after that.