I Became a Prostitute for the First Time in My Life—But That Same Night, I Walked Into a Hotel Room and Found a Deadly Snake Waiting for Me Instead of the Man Who Paid Me

Chapter 3

The first person I told was Beatrice.

She sat in her room the next day, cross-legged on the floor, a cigarette burning between her fingers, her eyes half-closed against the smoke. I sat on the edge of her bed and told her everything — the lamp, the green snake, the way it looked at me, the way it disappeared into the clothes as if it had never existed.

She was quiet for a long moment. That alone should have frightened me, because Beatrice was never quiet.

“I hope it didn’t bite you,” she finally said, her eyes traveling down to my legs.

“No,” I said, my voice still unsteady. “It just… looked at me.”

She leaned forward and took my hand. Her palm was warm, almost maternal, and for a second I thought she might actually believe me.

“Helen,” she said softly, “don’t be scared. The hotel will take responsibility. They’ll make sure it is completely eradicated. It’s just a bush snake that crawled in from the compound. Forget it, enjoy your money.”

Forget it. Enjoy your money.

I wanted to believe her so badly that I almost did.

So I went to the market. I bought new clothes, fine shoes, a bag that cost more than my mother’s rent. I walked through the stalls with a heavy purse and a lighter heart, and I told myself that the snake had been a mistake — a strange, ugly coincidence that meant nothing.

For a while, that lie worked.

For a while.

—

We went out again, of course. The money never lasted, and Beatrice always knew where the next party was, and there was always a reason I could not say no. Nights blended into weeks. Weeks became months. I grew comfortable in that life — the perfume, the laughter, the roll of cash pressed into my palm. I stopped thinking about the hotel room. I stopped thinking about the green eyes.

Then, one evening — about seven months after that first night — I was in my room getting ready for another outing.

I had bought a new pair of golden heels the week before, and I kept them in a corner near my table so I could admire them every time I walked past. That evening, I went to pick them up, already humming a song from the party playlist.

And my feet stopped.

Under the table, in the corner where my shadow fell, there was a nest.

It was made of dried grass and twisted twigs, woven carefully, deliberately — the way a mother builds a cradle. And inside that nest were eggs.

Not chicken eggs.

They were pale, oval, leathery-looking things, arranged in a perfect circle like beads on a string. I had never seen eggs like that in my life. But somehow, with a certainty that turned my blood cold, I knew exactly what they were.

I opened my mouth, and the sound that came out was not a word. It was a scream.

“Beatrice! Daniella! Everybody — come here!”

They came running, four of them, pushing into my room with confused faces. “What is it? Why are you shouting like someone is killing you?” Beatrice demanded.

“Look,” I whispered, pointing at the floor. “Look at that nest. Look at those eggs.”

The room went quiet.

Beatrice crouched down. She studied the nest for a long moment, then she laughed — a short, dismissive sound that made my skin prickle.

“Helen, you fear too much,” she said, standing up. “Maybe the person who lived here before kept a pet. A lizard, a snake, something. Stop acting like a village girl.”

She picked up a piece of paper, scooped the nest into it, and carried it outside. I watched through the window as she dropped the whole thing into the dustbin by the gate.

“Nothing must disturb tonight’s party,” she said, settling back in front of her mirror and picking up her eyebrow pencil. “Rich men are waiting for us, and you are standing there talking about eggs. Oya, dress up.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that the eggs had not been there yesterday, that no pet had ever lived in my room, that I had swept that corner a hundred times. But Beatrice was already humming, already drawing her brows, and the other girls were already reaching for their lipsticks.

So I dressed up.

We went out. And just as she had promised, nothing strange happened. I made more money that night than I had made in a month. And slowly, slowly, I let the nest and the eggs slip out of my mind, the way you let a bad dream dissolve in the morning light.

I should have known better.

A thing that leaves eggs in your room is not done with you. It is planting a promise.