Chapter 8 | Silver For Lungs, Metal For Tongues
[Song of choice: Florence + the Machine // Hiding]
Rani stares at me for a whole second, stares at me for so long that I notice the way her eyes flicker, stray and fall. She fishes the cucumber slice out of her hair and claws the smooth walls for something to help hoist her up. Her hands slip and slide, unable to catch a grip.
She cannot even stand.
Though drunk, I feel more sober than she'll ever be in this state. Her eyes are a clouded haze. Her lips are swollen. Her hair limp, her face drawn. She closes her eyes and squeezes them together. Amber turns to obsidian when she opens them again, but the unshed tears make her eyes waver like a black hole when she looks up at me.
"Holly, I-I was just..." she starts, half standing, half falling, knees bent like a baby giraffe. She shakes as she leans forward to flush the cubicle. The only evidence of her purge has been washed away.
My mouth is too dry to formulate a coherent response. I can only stutter soundlessly. Words gets jammed in my throat like a bubble too big. My throat swells and swells until the first word is a gasp. After that I feel lighter than a balloon. If my feet weren't anchored to the tiled floor I would fly away.
"I'm so sorry," I say, my eyes revolving around her face. I still can't meet her eyes—obsidian forged from fire.
She opens her mouth and shuts it. I doubt she's ever heard that sort of response before. I choke, the last question she'll want to answer, "Why, Rani? Why?"
Her heel cracks as she regains her footing. She doesn't care. Nothing I say can undo the look in her eyes as she nears her reflection.
She limps past me to the sink, cupping a handful of water and gargling. Pumping the soap dispenser, Rani scrubs her knuckles raw until they shine a rusted gold. She dries her hands, reaches for the abandoned clutch bag she must have put aside before entering the cubicle and fishes out a pocket-sized mouthwash. I watch her gargle the mouthwash, then she spits it out like dragon fire.
Her actions are mechanical. This isn't a one-off. This is a routine.
"Why, Rani?" I repeat, turning to her reflection with a mask of horror. "Why?"
She doesn't even look at me. Her fingers slide into her bag to retrieve her signature blood-red lipstick. She puckers her lips, smacks them together and pockets the lipstick.
"Rani."
She doesn't smile at her reflection, not once. "There. Good as new," she says to herself, teasing her damp hair with her fingers so the waves rest effortlessly on her shoulders.
My voice is hoarse with desperation. I dare not touch her.
"Rani."
Her tongue is clipped back, her voice so cold that I fold my arms across my chest to hold down a shiver.
"You inherited an eye for art and performance, and I inherited this." She waves at the skeleton in the mirror, a skeleton wearing a human's face. "My body is a tomb, Holly. Ever had to live inside a corpse for eighteen years? At least when I was younger, when I was all geek and glasses, I looked exactly how I felt."
"You have a body worthy of worship."
She tilts her head to the side, critically tracking her face in the mirror, trapped in a dreamlike haze.
She whispers, "What makes you think I would ever want to be worshipped?" Rani raises a hand to her face, but it drops back to the sides like heavy pendulums. They do not swing. I wonder if the clock inside her has stopped sticking, and when. The papers never report the life she had before stardom. I try to picture the life Rani left behind in search for fame, and I come up with a blank canvas.
