Disclaimer: I own nothing
"Betrayal is common for men with no conscience."
― Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut
She returns, her steps graceful and quiet like the sea, in her home. It is past midnight, she has left the lights and the clapping back at the studio, the cameras no longer rolling. Her bag full of glitter, eye-shadows and bright lipsticks weighs in her hand. A mirror and a burn from a cigarette on the other. It's the Victor's new habit and the smoke burns her lungs but she says no word.
She walks fiercefully, noticing flaws in the pavement. Her hair a blazing, fashionable red, her skin a sick yellow. In her pocket lies a crippled photo of Cashmere's smiling face. She knows that face by heart, could recognize it with her eyes shut. The persistent wrinkles, the veins, the tired lines of the forehead, the small ears, the unpainted lips, the whispers.
The make-up artist sees the daylight sporadically, only in days-off and during the Games when Cashmere is not mentoring. Her secrets stay in the narrow halls and the dressing rooms. Her family life is quiet and simple.
She follows Cashmere like a shadow since her Games. The last days the Victor also started drinking, bizarre colorful liquids that make her eyes shine temporarily and leave only a blur in front of her cerulean irises and a tremor in her silk hands. It is barely noticeable but she does notice when she wipes her face clean off make-up and nail polish -she hates it and always complains- at the end of a live show. Cashmere knows too and orders fruits sharply, spits her commands, barks her answers irritated after the artist tries to make small talk. She detests pitiful looks.
She brings the fruits, she massages the blonde fire. They always go their separate ways a little before midnight. Before every show, or presentation Cashmere makes, they meet again. It is a routine now, they'll both say. It is torture they'll both think.
Titi, Triti or Tutti never says no, never talks back. She also weaves her delicate, invisible web methodically as she is told, betraying the blonde's secretes, her deepest fears, her wrath into powerful hands. Cashmere is basically trapped even there, in the luminous dressing room. Late at night the Victor screams, complains, shakes, yells, brakes a little bit every time. The make-up artist -the shadow- comforts, whispers soothing lies in her ear, strokes coldly her shiny curls, paints her nails, listens and chokes her.
Slowly. Steadily. Remorselessly.
Cashmere is trapped in another bright cage as she has been trapped her whole life but she is too tired to fight her way out. She can only wish for a flame to consume her jail and her in it.
Hello again! I tried a different style in this one shot which is greatly inspired by Lorata's 'let the sky fall'. Totally recommend it. Let me know your thoughts on this story.