Posted in Fiction

Armour

As she squeezes some moisturizer in her hand, she ponders.

She uses makeup as an armour against the harsh, cruel world.

Moisturizer, check.

She applies primer to her face, setting herself. Makeup helps her get through the day with her head held high, giving her the extra boost of confidence she needs.

Primer, check.

Blending the foundation in with her fingers, she realises that she does love her body, she loves herself. It’s just that others don’t. They see her face, the scars from the accident and they point, their mouths open in frozen laughter.

Foundation, check.

Brushing over her dark circles with concealer, she covers the parts she knows people hate. That spot on her chin, her endless dark circles, the scars from the sharp glass.

Concealer, check.

The brush is in her hand, as she applies powder. She loves herself in her house, without any makeup on. But she loves her confident self, with the prettiest face a bit more.

Powder, check.

Picking a shade of azure, she starts applying eyeshadow on her left eye. When people compliment her on her makeup, she doesn’t feel as self-conscious, she feels appreciated and she smiles at them. She finishes her left eye, moving onto the right one. She likes this shade. It reminds her of her hometown where the peacocks dance in the rain, their feathers glistening with the drops.

Eyeshadow, check.

She picks up the jet black liner, making a wing on her left eye. She’s done it so many times, she could do it in her sleep. She’s been applying makeup since she was fifteen, a month or so after the car accident that ruined everything. She starts the wing on the other eye, making slow, precise strokes, smiling at her reflection as the wing forms to be congruent to the other.

Eyeliner, check.

She searches for her trusty mascara in the mess that’s her makeup bag, eventually finding it under that foundation which was a shade too dark. She lifts it up to her eyelashes, her mouth opening in the slightest. She hums a song she’s heard on the radio a few times, she thinks it’s called childhood or youth or something along those lines. Her dog, Sniffles runs into her bedroom, pressing up against her leg. She smiles, putting the wand down, petting him.

“Aw, c’mere baby, yes. You good boy.”

Mascara, check.

She picks up the brush, brushing it against the red blush. She sucks in her cheeks, applying it on the apple of her cheek. She’s not sure what people have against makeup, calling it fake, one should be comfortable in their own skin and all that bullshit. She is comfortable in her own skin. But she can hear the hushed whispers and see the fleeting glances when she goes out for a short trip to the grocery store. And she hates feeling that way, like an animal on display, for all her flaws to be seen, poked at and laughed at. Makeup protects her.

Blush, check.

From the array of lipsticks, she chooses the candy red one, the one she knows her boss thinks is too vulgar. She glides it slowly over her lips, smiling. Once done, she replaces the cap, puckering her lips at her reflection, sort of a fuck you to the world.

Lipstick, check.

 

 

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