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“I’ll avenge ya. I promise ya that,” I avow to my mirror image. “I don’t care what y’ve done. Ifhewas the one who took yer life…then I’ll take his.”
My entire life has been based on a lie.
This is the first time I’ve painted my face this way since that night. I remembered because of the photograph, but tonight, I painted it from memory, and that only ignites my need for revenge.
My face is the canvas, and this painting is one I wear with pride. Each stroke is in honor of my ma, and I will bear this mask to punish those who hurt her.
Suddenly, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and without a sound, I reach for the gun in the top drawer of the vanity. Elvis muffles my footsteps as I creep through the bathroom, peering around the doorjamb into the living room, gun poised and ready to use, but who I see has the depravity reflected on my face burning my soul.
Why is she here?
She stands in front of the charcoal sketching hanging over the fireplace, her head cocked to the side as if attempting to decode what each stroke means. Good luck to her. This is a look inside my mind. It doesn’t make sense—up is down, down is up. Nothing is what it seems…just like me.
Her blonde hair is loose, and I have the urge to wrap it around my fist as she drops to her knees before me. These thoughts need to stop, but I lost control the moment I met her. She intrigues me because without a doubt, she’s not who she says she is.
I sure as shite don’t trust her, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her. And so, I do the one thing I’ve not done before—I give in.
With a measured pace, I walk into the living room, and the closer I get to her, the hotter the fire burns. She is pure sin wrapped in a big red bow. When I’m feet away, she spins quickly, her trance broken, but when she sees me, she gasps, taking a step back.
I wonder what she sees.
I come to a stop, thrilled by the way her heated gaze openly examines me. I’m in nothing but ripped black jeans. But I imagine my face is what she’s most intrigued and…terrified by. A breath escapes her as she walks forward, closer and closer until she halts.
We stand face-to-face, inches apart, not saying a word.
Wearing this mask allows me to study her without reluctance because I feel like someone other than me. There has always been an attraction between us, but something feels different. This feels like we’re at a crossroads, and the direction we choose to take will change the course of everything.
Babydoll bites her bottom lip, appearing to weigh over her next move, and when she reaches out with hesitation, I realize why that is. With two fingers, she cautiously caresses down my cheek, examining the design beneath her touch.
She doesn’t know the story of why I would choose to paint my face this way. This war paint is as much a part of me as my neutral face, and I suppose in some ways, I wear two faces.
“What does this mean?” she whispers, her eyes chasing her touch.
“This is my true face,” I reply, standing perfectly still when she runs her fingers along the line across my cheek and traces the slashes over my mouth. “Everythin’ else is just a pretty distraction.”
She strokes over my lip piercing, taking a moment to digest what I’ve just shared. “Why does this face look so…sad?”
Sad?
To most, this makeup would appear frightening, monstrous, but of course, Babydoll isn’t like most.
“Why’re ya here?” I question, peering down at her, the closeness between us suddenly not close enough.
Her fingers are leading to my forehead, but my hand snaps out, capturing her wrist. “What do these three lines mean?”
She sees the significance for what it is and doesn’t disregard it as merely a theatrical flair. She seems to understand that each stroke serves a purpose, that nothing was done by accident. How can she read me so well?
“Their lives are mine,” I ambiguously answer, eyes locked with hers. “I know who they are…it’s only a matter of time.”
“And what happens when you take them?”
Her question catches me off guard because I haven’t thought that far ahead. Up until tonight, I didn’t even know that one of those lives could be my da’s.
“What happened to you, Punky?”
Hissing, I pull her toward me, so we’re pressed chest to chest. She doesn’t cower. She dares me to do my best.
“If I tell ya that, I’m gonna have to kill ya.”
