To be perfectly honest with you, I have no bloody idea where this came from...When I re-read it I found it slightly odd and weird but I kinda liked it.
Contains angst, no swearing unless I'm blind when I re-read it and no violent themes.
I thought I'd explore a possible hidden side to Vince we may never see
Disclaimer: I own nothing Boosh
xx
Nothing Inside
There's nothing inside, just rotting organs begging for nutrition, lungs wishing to breathe their last and a heart as black and cold as the eye of a storm. Bones so brittle they could snap any second and a brain so rarely used so abandoned, or so they think.
On the outside is just a layer of thick make up, cracked and melted from tears and violent slashes of the back of the hand and fingertips rubbing away the embarrassing trickles of salty water. Deep under the make up lies a face, a face rarely seen because of the mask that hides it so well, a face more handsome than he chooses to believe for it is he who douses himself in cheap cosmetic products and dresses in garish clothing. It is he who attacks his hair each day with numerous products he does not need, it is he who straightens flat his black locks with such great heat causing accidental burns on the backs of his hands and fingers. It is he who looks in the mirror with no mask on and sees himself as vile and disgusting.
Now the mask is on but slipping, his make up running causing dark circles round his eyes, now he sees the real hideousness. He touches the mirror gingerly, tracing two or three pale tips down it's reflective glass. No emotion rests on his face, nothing at all just a blank space, a blank stare, his bottom lip between his teeth being gnawed at constantly. He watches his fingers run lines down the mirror, stroking the reflection of his cheek, he stares with glazed over eyes not really feeling anything anymore. He does, however, think deeply about himself, about his appearance, about those people around him, the people that do matter and then those that do not.
The people that do matter would not care if he stripped himself of the make up and the loud clothing, they would love him for who he was and wouldn't judge him at all however those that didn't matter had high opinions of him. He had a reputation to uphold and if he changed they would leave, simple as that but did he really care?
He drops his hand, he can't touch the mirror anymore, he can barely look at himself. He reaches for make up wipes and quickly but surely drags one over his face pulling off the stubborn eyeliner and eyeshadow along with the protesting pale foundation. He tosses the dirty rag aside and looks up shakily at the mirror, his face a blank canvas, pure, healthy looking, better, nicer. His skin feels alive, it breathes better, it laps up the pure air for fear of being concealed again.
Once more he traces a finger over his reflected face, a trembling smile appears at his lips as he draws the outline of it on the mirror with his tip. He feels better, much better without the silly strangling mask on his face.
Part of his tough task is finished but the next is yet to come for he still has to venture outside the bedroom into the world hoping it will accept his naked features, he stands keeping his gaze down toward the floor letting his fringe flop forwards to conceal most of his face. He takes hold of the door handle, twists and turns and ventures out into the brightness of the rest of the flat awaiting the comments from the City.
He prays they will not drag him back to the old routine of the mask he left behind on his bedroom floor.