A/N: Jess here. This is set a little bit before 'Beginnings', so basically, before Ghoul's run away.
A year ago, this was his world. He remembers now, clearly, his younger self standing before the very same bathroom mirror-- the paints may change, but the mirror never did, and it's grown cracked and dirty since then, with grime you can't wash away-- at age 14, 15, 16, watching himself grow older. Stewart was lonelier than ever before, and there's a moment he'll never forget:
Stewart blinks at himself, staring into a face he can't recognize. The charcoal eyes before him are dull and sleep-heavy. He runs a hand through his hair. Another day over-- maybe the nightlife will be more interesting.
Doubtful, he pulls his pack up higher on his shoulders, trying to look more awake. His collar is itchy against his neck-- he loosens it, and then unbuttons a few, too, pushing his sleeves up. At least he doesn't look too boring.
A loud, tinny bell rings from outside the washroom's wooden door. The buses have probably already left, and he's here by himself, staring into a mirror and wishing the school had better air conditioning. His pale, pale face is flushed.
He looks like a ghost.
He waits until the last set of footsteps have faded until he gathers the courage to sneak outside.
--
He doesn't have time to go home-- no, not today, not yet. As he walks down the sidewalk, he dials his cell and leaves a message saying he'll be back late, making up some ridiculous story on the spot about school projects and group work.
If they buy it, they buy it. If they don't, he doesn't particularly care.
--
Lucky for him, the mall is only a block, maybe two away from the school, although in this heat, it doesn't really matter-- he'll sweat to death anyway. God, he must look like a drowned rat.
There are teenagers everywhere, milling about in little groups, looking bored and disinterested. The weather drives them here, just like it drove him here-- he can't complain, the cool air feels good against his skin. Pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache, he tunes out the noise and begins to navigate his way towards the dollar store.
If he'd known what a dollar store looked like 50 years ago, he wouldn't have been able to tell that they were considered the same store-- not at all. Dollar stores sell everything from caffeine pills to cheap 3-song recordings that you can pop into your ear like a headphone, to the typical, boring stuff, like junk food and plastic flowers and cutlery. He lives off dollar stores. They're all-purpose.
The cashier behind the desk is a 20-something brunette who's chewing gum in that obnoxious way that drives him nuts and flipping through a magazine. He ignores her, and heads for the aisles.
In his head, he names off the things he needs, list-format. If his thoughts were processed into words, they'd be in bullets. He likes lists-- they keep him organized in ways he so clearly fails most of the time.
Even years later, he'll still be a little embarassed about rifling through the sparkly nail varnish and pink blush of the makeup row just to find what he's looking for, but it's worth it, in the end. His fingers clasp around the things he needs, and he grabs one of those little paper bags they keep between the shelves, shoving them inside. The other things are harder to find, but not too hard that they take him more than five minutes. A bottle of painkillers is on the shelf next to the gummy worms, which he grabs too because, hey, sugar. The iced coffees are in the fridge at the back of the store. The sunglasses line the front racks. Polysporin is near the middle.
He eventually comes back to the girl behind the cash, dumping his stuff in front of her. She looks almost annoyed at him for interrupting, but rings him up nonetheless. He digs change out of his pockets, and he's off again.
--
The public washrooms are gross, even compared to those of his school (no matter how high-class, it's still a bathroom, and it'll be gross anyway). Lucky for him, there's no one else here, which is great, but he's probably only got a few minutes before some jerk wanders in. Stewart combs a hand through his blond hair and sets his things down.
First, he needs to check status, which is something he probably should've done while he was still at school, but really-- no time. Pressing the heels of his palms against the counter in front of the mirrors, he stares at himself.
There are bruises forming underneath his eyes, although one's a bit more noticeable and definitely not because of lack of sleep-- it's turning an ugly purple, and when he reaches a hand up, poking the skin gingerly, it throbs. Great. They always aim for the face.
His elbows are skinned, and his right wrist feels a little tender, but he's okay. He pulls the backpack down from his shoulders and leaves it beside the sink, rifling through it until he finds his change of clothes, and heads for the stalls.
As it turns out, his knees are bleeding, and he's ridiculously careful pulling his old pair of pants off and slipping the new ones on, because it hurts, damnit. He rolls the legs up as he heads back out, sitting down beside his pack to gently rub disinfectant onto the scrapes, ripping bandages open and pressing those down. Finally, he stands again, examining himself.
What first?
The facepaint-- it's always the easiest to apply. Grabbing a silver pot from inside the paper bag, he twists the lid off and dips a finger in. The black oil is something between liquid and dust, and it feels smooth as he gently rubs it in thick, dark circles around his eyes, being careful not to irritate the swelling that's slowly forming too much. When he's done, he looks like some sort of demented jack-o-lantern, with a wide grin and wider eyes.
With a tube of liquid eyeliner, he draws designs onto the backs of his hands, and then, with little flicks, stitches onto his arms and against his collarbone. The look isn't perfected yet-- it still looks a little sloppy, but it's getting better. He's never sure exactly where the stitches go, though, and so they always end up in different places.
The persona that stares back at him has a name, and in those first few moments, he feels elated, like he's finally someone and yet no one at all. He remembers naming himself, too-- in his bedroom, with the lights off and the city buzzing outside his window, he knew he wanted to be someone else.
And here he is, for maybe only the second? third? time, but he knows what he isn't, and it's amazing. He steps into the role like a new pair of shoes.
Ghoul pops a few painkillers and slings his backpack on again, grinning to himself all the while.