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Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

A mark through the ages, a symbol for all, identified through this, a treasure behold. 

The clues keep on running through my mind, fast and unvoiced, taking up all the limited space. The words keep on swirling around, weaving itself together, untangling and tangling itself over and over again, confusing me until I try to push it back down and bring it up again. It is a riddle, I know. They are trying to test the boundaries of our mental capabilities, on how fast we can analyze the things going on around us and the true meaning behind these disguised words.

But the sharp tug of the hairbrush snaps me from my train of thoughts, relieving me back to reality, where everyone is bustling around, busy and occupied. The girl in front of me is covered in thick make-up, reminding me of the rainbow surfaced areas back in the bus. Too many colors, too many to see.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Her voice is as thick as honey, but her facial expression betrays the fake concern she is trying to voice out. 

My scalp is starting to hurt from the continuous tugging, separating my matted hair from each other and the hotness emanating from the curling iron just not too long ago. She has already made me go through the washing of hair, curling it, then making me go back to the water again because she is unsatisfied with the work she has done. Now, as I stare at myself in the mirror, I am trying to decipher her expressions to see if she is pleased with my hair being in the process of straightening with a flat iron.

“I’m fine,” I try to say but give a little yelp almost right away as the iron got too close to my scalp. She grimaces.

“Sorry.” She apologizes. I do not believe her.

All around me, people are running around, bringing kits and bags filled with beautification stuff and properties that are far more valuable than each of our lives. Some are pushing a rack filled with clothes encased in plastic cover-ups, neatly pressed. In this room, there are only girls and the stylists, and no one else. Once in a while, an officer knocks three times on the door and pushes it open to check if all of us are still complete.

As if one of us can escape. There are only two doors, the front one and the one that leads out to the terrace, which is at least ten feet from the ground. If one decides to go, you either go through the front while praying that there will be no officers to catch you, or jump to your death from this room to the ground. It’s a no-win situation, if you asses it clearly. 

She suddenly turns me around, my eyes sweeping the room in one swift movement before I lock eyes with her. I can no longer see myself in the mirror. 

“Okay, now we put your make-up on,” she reaches over behind me to get her things. “I can’t let you see my work when it isn’t even finished yet.”

Time passes by. All I could feel was her hands grazing my cheek once in a while, the sharp plucking of my eyebrows with tweezers (as she had called it), the soft feeling of a brush against my cheeks and the cool touch of something being applied just over my eyes. 

“Open your eyes now,” she instructs me and I do. Everything past her seems blurry, and then slowly coming into focus. I blink a couple of times until she chastises me for doing so.

“Stop! You’re going to cry if you keep doing that! It would ruin my hard work!” She cups my face into her hands, slightly squishing my face together, giving me pouty lips and too fat cheeks. I can barely speak.

“Are we far from done?” I ask, my voice sounding muffled. I look up at her.

“Almost. Now don’t speak another word. And close your eyes again.” She adds and I immediately do.