Free Night Hunter by Carol Davis Luce

that gave her a warm buzz, she began.
    Ninety minutes later, her legs beginning to feel the fatigue of standing, she added the final touches to her face. She would wear one of her eye patches — after all, the patch in itself was a bold fashion statement. Following a dusting of blusher, she outlined her lips, then filled them in with a matching shade of lipstick.
    She removed the rollers and brushed her shoulder-length hair until it crackled with electricity. She sprayed the brush with hair spray, a trick she remembered from a time before, and brushed through again, controlling the wispy strands. Holding up a glossy eight-by-ten photograph of herself, taken before the pageant, she worked diligently to achieve a similar hairstyle. One side was swept up and away from her face, the other side fell in waves along the side. It was done.
    She closed her eyes, fighting an inebriated wave of dizziness that washed over her, and stepped back several feet. She turned her head to the left, tipped her chin down, lifted her mouth into a coquettish smile, and, opening her eyes, shifting them sideways, she looked into the mirror. It took a moment to focus. She was startled by the effect. More than that, she was astonished. It wasn’t possible. No, it just wasn’t possible.
    Looking back at her was the Corinne of a lifetime ago. Her heart pounded. Her hands trembled.
    “ Oh, God. Oh my God,” she whispered.
    Unable to contain her excitement, she snatched up the can of beer, knocking jars of makeup into the sink, and finished it off, her mind whirling.
    All these years she had hated herself. The surgery, admittedly, had made some improvements, but her problem, she realized now, had been compounded by her own damning perfectionism. She had expected too much, had been too hard on herself. She had stubbornly adopted the attitude that if she couldn’t be perfect, like before, she would be nothing.
    Neither stupid nor blind —though definitely tipsy —she could still see the scars and facial damage. And, naturally, the years had taken their toll overall. But it was all relative, wasn’t it? Wishing for lost youth and beauty was so damned unrealistic.
    Corinne thought about the others. Donna, Tammy, Amelia and Regina. Of all the contestants in the contest, Corinne had feared Regina the most. She had something special that was more than skin deep. When the two of them had stood side by side on the stage, clinging to each other anxiously, waiting for the emcee to name the winner, Corinne had felt an instant choking panic. And then her name had been announced, and suddenly everyone was whistling and cheering, the contestants were hugging her, the crown was being fastened to her head. She thought she would die of happiness.
    And God, oh dear merciless God, why had I been chosen? Why not Regina instead?
    Stop it. No more negative thoughts. It’s over and done with. It can’t be changed. Take what’s offered now and make a new life for yourself.
    In the kitchen she pulled the houndstooth outfit from the dryer, shook it out, and tossing her shift aside, hastily put on the skirt and cropped jacket. It was loose, but that was better than too tight. She ran into her bedroom and rummaged in her closet for shoes. She found a pair of black patent leather pumps with short heels.
    Hopping on first one foot, then the other, she slipped them on her bare feet. She’d have to buy hose, but that was no problem. Nothing was a problem anymore. She’d go to the store, any store she wanted. No more deliveries to the house. No more going without. She hugged herself and spun around, laughing and crying until she had worked herself into a coughing spasm.
    She stopped abruptly, gasping. The pain in her lungs concerned her little, it was the fear of ruining the makeup that forced her to gain control. The makeup and its miraculous effects were essential to boosting her confidence. If she planned to go on that show tomorrow, she needed all the confidence she could