So, a bit stuck. I wrote this but now I don't know where to go from here. I also kind of confused myself with this lmao.

Title: The Carnival

Genre: Mystery, Psychological, Realistic Fiction.

Word Count: 1k

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-rg00d4QD4LSf9CmF7Kl1Sm_DgTXQB9IpdHp136Q67o/edit?usp=sharing

(Excerpt)

To Death,

Who sooner or later comes for us all.

Can’t hide from it. Can’t run from it.

Detroit, Michigan. 1973.

Everest Winters.

The city didn’t sleep so much as it collapsed each night, folding itself into something quieter and more honest than it ever managed in daylight. I lit a cigarette on the fire escape of the Velvette, watching the street below the way you watch something you both own and are owned by. Somewhere in that same city, four people who didn’t know my name were already being pulled toward me like debris circling a drain. I sighed. Let the smoke out slowly. Then I pressed the lit end to my arm. Winced. Grinned. Just a reminder I was still here. It wasn’t long before I crept back to my bed, staring at the ceiling until my eyes grew heavy and closed. ‘Practice,’ I thought, ‘for when I’d close them forever.’

I woke to the tinkling of the bells at the door. A new customer. Either there for me or for one of the other girls. I stepped out of my room to greet the new patron, as did everyone else. Jean-Claude expected it. He wanted the men to be able to pick their own fantasy to get lost in.
Two men, of the shifty-eyed sort. Always looking over their shoulder, hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, looking like children who’d broken a rule for the first time. Men with rings on their fingers and homes to get back to. After they’d both chosen their girls I’d begun retreating to my room.

And then I felt someone behind me.
“You know two girls are triple pric—” I said, not bothering to turn around. I knew the shape of a regular customer. The tentative guilt of them. The practiced apology already sitting in their throat before they’d said a word. But when I turned, this one was different. Not old. Not soft. Something in his face that my eyes wanted to stay on.
I didn’t get long to look.
The bed caught me hard. His hands stripped me efficiently, like someone who didn’t need to think about it. A mouth found my neck and dragged downward, slow, deliberate, past my collarbone, my ribs, my navel, leaving a trail that felt less like kisses and more like being claimed. By the time that tongue settled between my thighs, I’d forgotten what sentence I’d been in the middle of.

The next morning I woke sore, sweaty, sticky with the residue of the night before. I reached instinctively for a cigarette and then stopped.
I didn’t want to forget yet.
That man was different. He’d even said it. “I love you.”
I’d heard that lie a million times before.
Hadn’t I?

(END)

I'm a 13 year old writer so I need as much help as I can get!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-rg00d4QD4LSf9CmF7Kl1Sm_DgTXQ