CHAPTER 10: The stylist(s)
The bold is the perspective of Jessi! Enjoy and stay classy.
I walked with Gunther to the part of our floor designated for our preparation. I would meet my 'prep-team' first, and they would "work their magic" as Gunther put it. I shuddered at the thought of glamor spells and greasy hair gel, and possibly glitter, being generously applied to my hair and body. I briefly hoped that this Jessi guy is very modest, but I know better than to assume such a prominent ar-teest would even take modesty into consideration. We were silent most of the way, as I was busy figuring up a mental image of my stylist, guessing at how bizarre looking he would be.
When an owl appeared at my window carrying an envelope bearing the Ministry seal, I was shocked none the less. They only sent me letters for one reason, my talent would be needed. Very rarely, I am summoned by the Wizarding government to perform important tasks pertaining to important witches and wizards. You see, I am an artist who's specialty is that of the human body. Many call me a stylist, but I like to think of myself as a creator, or a re-creator. I don't style; I invent, and often re-invent. My lucky clients too often make the mistake of calling this a career. I am just doing my duty to the world. My life in the Wizarding world may not have been successful when I was labeled a Squibb, but when I found the Muggle creation of art and human design, I knew my calling was clear. Not only was my place in the Muggle world, but the dull, magical community desperately needed my gift. Fortunately, I am very generous to both magical and non-magical, so I was graciously accepted by both when I debuted my new-found talent.
"Gunther, have you met him?" I asked as we sped down the corridor to fetch Katniss. I hadn't let up picturing my stylist, but I had nothing to work from. Was he tall? Was he rude? Was he English? Did he smell...odd? All of this and more was racing through my consciousness, and I needed some hint. Gunther threw his head back in laughter as he abruptly stopped. "What?" I asked franticly, alarmed at his amusement. "Oh nothing, just that you are in for a big surprise!" No matter how much I pressed, he wouldn't explain further. We were nearing my partner's room.
My father and mother were prejudice purebloods who took pride in having untainted blood. Although I was hated by both of them, the way they carried themselves was admirable, so I desperately tried to be accepted by my family, and adopted their way of thinking. They, of course, hated me, and my siblings and the neighborhood kids all teased and bullied me for posing as one of them. My plan flopped, and I was disowned by the age of 15. My life in the Muggle world wasn't much easier, at first. Literally the only thing I had in common with them, was that I couldn't do magic, at least not in the way wizards were used to. I was moody a lot, always thrashing and hitting things, sometimes hurting myself in the process. I was kicked out of several complexes for my volume, and the fact that I was unapproachable. Often, I found myself wandering abandoned warehouses, all different, but all vacant. I stayed away from society for a while, to find myself. That's when I stumbled into one particularly...new, building, filled with everything I needed to rebuild, no, re-create a life for myself.
Katniss was still bitter from the events of yesterday, but remained quiet and reserved the whole walk to the remake center, as I just found out it was actually called, by an annoyed Katniss.
There was little noise coming from the building, that night. I peered through a crack in the door ajar. What I saw made me overcome with curiosity, so I pushed open the metal warehouse door, entering as I was bathed in a stark white glow. It was so bright that I had to shield my eyes before they began to adjust. Once my vision was cleared I saw the most bizarre of sights...
The door of the remake center was really just a tacky bead-curtain, resembling unicorn vomit. Gunther cringed in sync with Katniss and I as the beads ran their smooth fingers along our shoulders and heads. I was shocked by the colorful assault my sight was enduring. Before us stood three severely mismatched people who's attire varied from face paint to glittering contacts. One male's hair was a spikey mess, tinted green like he was a walking turf. He wore the contacts. He had twin snakes tattooed, wrapping around his wrists and up his arms, continuing under his lavender 3-piece suit sleeves. The tails stopped just above his metallic loafers, winding up his calf, probably connecting to the other ends along the way. He introduced himself as Bentley Turffee (it all makes sense now...) of Belfast, and mentioned he styles hair (great, just great. Maybe I can get grain-brain to turn my hair into a wheat field!).
A pale woman was splayed in the center of a large heap of discarded sketch papers, all written on, weeping towards the ceiling. She kept repeating the words "I'm dead. I'm dead." Maybe she noticed me enter, maybe she didn't. If she did, she didn't make a show of it. I crept towards her as silently as I could manage, hoping her chant would conceal my footsteps. They didn't and she ceased. The pure white warehouse was so silent, I swear I heard her heart beating painfully against her chest. She didn't bother sitting up. "Who are you?" I asked with obvious curiosity. "I should say the same for you, I was here first!" She retorted unnecessarily. She was definitely in fix if she could treat a complete stranger like that. Thinking carefully about her question, I answer it with a certainty that I didn't know I possessed. "No one, yet." She replied swiftly, ending with an airy chuckle that lasted in the form of an echo, "Well, I think I have a solution that can benefit the both of us." I perked up at her proposition.
The woman in the center of the unlikely trio had curly strawberry blonde hair with streaks of lightning blue, bringing out the shocking color in her eyes. Her lips were painted green, matching her knee-high socks. She wore a skirt of tightly knit...wire? Her metal casket reached her ribcage, cutting off jaggedly at the start of a green tanktop. Her name was Litza Gory-Lent, of Wales, and she had the task of foundation makeup. She shot us a dazzling smile after her introduction, revealing her gemstone tipped canines. They were studded with a blue jewel, the color of the toxic English Bluebell bloom. When I voiced my observation, much to Katniss' dismay, she just grinned more radiantly, replying between her gleaming menacing teeth, "Ah, well that is because that is what is infused in the gem! I must be careful not to bite my tongue though!" Since it seemed to be a joke, we all politely laughed along, discreetly sharing concerned glances. The man on the end looked the most modest of the three...yet still far from normal.
"I've seemed to grab your attention now," she chuckled again, her face contorting into an expression that made me wonder even more about this plan of hers. Still lying in the pile of paper, she began, "My name is Jessi le Créateur, and I am dead." The shock on my face was met with more laughter. I quickly snapped shut my hanging jaw, and regained my composure. I took another look at all of the paper. At first, it seemed like paint, or maybe even ink, but when I dared at few step closer to the sight, I almost couldn't believe what I was seeing. Page after page, darkened blood was splattered, smeared, sprayed, and even finger-painted. I reached for a page on the end, one that was written messily in maroon. The page read, in medium-sized lettering that floated along the page, "With nothing left to create, I have nothing left to live for." I turned to her in disbelief. "So, you committed suicide because your creative juices ran out!?" I accuse, glaring at her incredulously. She sighed and nodded, lifting her right hand and pointing her finger; I looked in her given direction and spotted a bloody blade a little off to her right side.
Christophe Maloney, of Liverpool, was the remaining 'remaker', and man was he an eyeful! He had an obnoxious overly-posh drawl that gave me a mild migraine. His wavy brown hair was concealed by a foot-and-a-half tall top hat with an array of peacock feathers wrapped around the base. He donned a bronze monocle, and even had the cliché handlebar mustache. He was wearing a tar black single-button tuxedo with matching slacks and a turquois bowtie. He had a peacock patterned satin notch lapel on his jacket, and wore blue suede shoes with tan laces. On his left wrist was Rose Gold Daytona, and in the other hand, was a cane styled like a pearl-handled Colt Peacemaker, the pole of the walking stick continuing as the barrel, a Markham Winery cork as the ferrule. His role in the remaking process was extensive grooming: nails, plucking-of-hair, soaks, oral health, etc...
"Okay...but if you are dead, how can you help a no-name like-OHH!" I exclaimed mid-sentence, the realization hitting me in the face like freezing ice water. "I can be you!...Right?" I was only hoping she had the same idea in mind. She was growing paler by the minute. That's when I understood that she wasn't dead...yet. "Jessi, do you want to die?" I asked tentatively, kneeling down next to the dying woman who I now noticed closely resembles the 21 year old I see everyday in the glassy surface of lake. She smiles up at me knowingly. "I did. I was uninspired; I no longer had a purpose." The way she spoke reminded me of a drilling manual, like it was a practiced response. "What do you mean? There are so many things to live for!" My shouts echoed in the spacious warehouse, repeating my words at us until it's just a whisper. "For you, there is everything. I knew that the moment you entered. You can do what I am no longer able; you can create." He voice was calm and kind, yet it was weak and fading; she would die soon. I clasped her limp, colorless hands with both of mine, and set everything in motion. She must have been on death's doorstep, because she didn't even notice. "You said did. What made you change your mind?" I asked quietly, silent tears streaming down my cheeks as I release all of my scant supply of magic into her, my desperate attempt to preserve her life. I grow tired quickly, but keep it together to maintain my ruse. "Nothing but the presence of my savior, about five minutes ago." She once again smiled knowingly, rising from the pile of papers before I blacked out.
"Okay...where is he?" I questioned impatiently, earning a punch in the shoulder from Katniss. The stylists just giggled, and Gunther grinned mischievously. Katniss looked confused for just a moment, then her mouth turned into an 'O', like something just donned on her. "What? What is so amusing?" I demanded, growing hostile towards the chuckling strangers(DOUBLE-MEANING, WOO-HOO!). Then out walks a woman with a slim build, sunny blonde hair, and golden eyeliner contrasting her dark red lipstick. "I think you're mistaken, Mister-Murder [Gunther mumbles to Katniss about a "killer sense of humor" and they roar with laughter]. I am no he."
A/N: Sorry for the delay, I've been really sick (a lethal mixture of allergies and writer's block!) as of late. The frequency of updates will slow, since I don't want this slower-paced story to be a total flop (if it isn't already!). I'm just gonna put more time and attention into advancing the story...and that KINDA requires "time and attention", so yeah. Please leave a review [if you wanna, no pressure!] and click, tap, or punch that favorite button! Stay Classy!