Free Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 by Happy Hour of the Damned Page B

needed to get home.

Chapter 7
The Great Cosmetics Heist
    Most clubs have no formal dress code; however, the Seattle scene is haute-haute-haute. You know what that means girls, glamour hair and face, designer clothes and pricey stilettos. Without? Don’t even bother to come…
    —Undead Times
    A half an hour later, I was in the shower, exfoliating like a rape victim. The steaming water hit from three angles, a sunflower blossom in the ceiling of the marble stall provided a typhoon of warm rain, while two sheets of water emerged from thin slits on either side of the wall. I leached comfort from the undulating warmth.
    I twisted the faucets closed.
    What’s the difference really? I thought. Warm, cold, comfortable, miserable, I’d never be clean again, anyway .
    The face, in the mirror, was unacceptable; blue veins netted across it, liberally, like the shaft of an engorged penis. Even with the most high-octane concealer and foundation, the spider webs pierced through, mocked me. Then, there was the issue of the bags under my eyes—sweet Jesus, don’t let me get started on the bags—thick and dark, like my tear ducts had turned to inkwells.
    And, my eyes—Oh my God—they’d turned on me.
    My eyes used to be my best facial feature, stormy ocean blue and cat-like. Now, I could hardly look into them. They had turned a light grey, only one or two shades darker than the whites, and despite the welcome sympathy I might glean from a Helen Keller shtick, I had no intention of faking blindness. Besides, a white cane with a red tip is not “ in ” this year, or any year.
    What hadn’t been affected by death? I tried to make an inventory. My hair, for one; it fell from my head to just below my shoulders, in deep brown waves. Who would have thought? Death is all about great hair. And, under the web of veiny white skin, my body rocked; muscles tighter than ever, they felt powerful, energized, like after an electroshock treatment.
    But, you’ve had enough of the self-love, back to the trauma.
    I turned the vanity into a graveyard of empty makeup containers; yet, I still looked like my dead Aunt Margene. This was clearly going to be an issue. Where could I go looking like this? To work? Unlikely. Although, the partners were self-absorbed enough not to notice, there were plenty of judgers who’d notice right away. The gossip would be flying through the office like horseflies, and the biggest buzz would come from Prissy Koch in Accounting. I imagined her sneaking up and snapping a pic with her cell, and then posting it on the agency intranet, with some heading like: The New Face of Alcoholism , or Those French and Their Veils . I wasn’t about to let that happen. I’d sooner die.
    Oh, wait…heh, heh, too late.
    When I was eight, I dragged my mother kicking and screaming to Aunt Margene’s funeral. Ethel hated Margene. Ever since she named her second daughter Cassandra, after Mother told her that was to be my name—I ended up with a complex anyway.
    “I love my name,” I’d said to Mom.
    Her response, “Ech, it’s so pedestrian, so…last minute.” Then, under her breath, “Fuck that bitch.” A model parent.
    I wanted to go so bad; I expected the chapel to be draped in black tulle and cobwebs like a Billy Idol video. Instead, we were greeted with thin blue-grey carpet and dusty pews from the bargain bin. The last time I saw Margene, she was shoved inside a white-satin-lined mahogany casket; my mother and I took turns flinching at her whore-like visage; her face was uniform beige with pinched red cheeks and lids heavy with blue powder. We made bets on the depth of the pancake make-up smeared on her face. I won—eighth of an inch—by going in with my pinky nail. I barely left a mark, a little half moon. No one else would notice; the rest of the family was too busy faking tears and rolling in drama like a puppy on birdshit.
    Then it came to me. The answer to my skin care dilemma: the morgue. Their makeup is heavy-duty