𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙇'𝙎 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙇 - 𝙔𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝘼𝙇𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙊𝙍 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

5.

━━━

There's a chill in the breeze, and the hairs across my body stand with nauseous fear. 

I stand outside the cold streets of the town, the afternoon's air cooling my skin and heightening my senses in the worst form. 

My phone clenched in my hand tightly, Valentino had just returned my call, given me a street address to wait at, and told me to wait so he'd pick me up. 

The hotel's occupants didn't stop me from leaving, and frankly, I don't blame them. This isn't their fight, this isn't their problem. It's mine. And as much as it truly bothers me for how Angel Dust acted, and how he screamed at me in such a way, I don't blame him either. We work under the same person, so I know what he deals with just as much as I do. 

My original performance clothes sit in a bag provided as I'm dressed in the same clothes Charlie supplied earlier. My hands are sweaty and clammy, my heart is beating intensely. 

I'm struggling to breathe, and as I suck in a deep, weighted breath, the sight of a familiar, daunting limo revv's up the street. 

Valentino. 

━━━

A beauty blender sits within my fingers, patting foundation and concealer against my skin.

My hands shake and tremble tensely, my throat burns. 

Eyes attempting to water and overflow, I sniffle and quickly wipe away the heated tears. Teeth gritted to cease my tears, the darkened, purple blotches which paint my skin lightly hide under the layers of product I build over my skin.

Bruises. 

As soon as I was pulled into Valentino's limo, he was not hesitant to prove his anger. 

And I believe the only thing that stopped him from finishing the job was the one sentence in which he stated with such distaste.

'You're lucky your pretty enough for me to forgive you.'

Yet against the bubbled rage that filled him, I doubt if it were any more severe, he would've killed me easily. 

I brush blush across my cheeks, an audience awaiting my performance with a large crowd and an already angered manager, waiting for me to financially cover and compensate him for my lacked performances since I ran away.

The studio lights which trim the vanity mirror before me glow and glisten the sparkles across my eyelids, my ribs aching against my tightened, jewelled bustier. My stomach continues to curdle and attempt to lift my lunch up, though I physically hold back. 

My silk-gloved hands run through my styled locks, tucking colour-matching feathers in and clipping them down securely. As I look in the mirror, I can see that no amount of make-up truly covers the bruises which patch my skin, horribly, repulsively. 

I feel repulsive. 

My styling room dimly fills with clothing racks lined with risque, jewelled and beaded performance costumes, feathers and jewellery, mannequins and performance posters on the wall, my entire life. Yet it's completely destroyed. The clothing rack is on the floor, clothes messily sprawled across the ground, mannequins tipped over, destroyed decor and hole-dented walls. 

Valentino is an angry man, in every case. It's terrifying. 

A heavy sigh exits my lips as I pat lipstick on, and as my styling door suddenly swings open, my head snaps to the intruding guests. 

"Yeah, and- there you are-! we were looking for you-"

"What are you doing here...!?" 

I cut the intruding guests off, the voice that loudly greets me is owned by Charlie, and with the uneasy, cold aura which seeps across my styling room, I can easily recognise it to be Alastor tagging along.