Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 17: Catnapped

Gatsby.

Hours pass from the moment Heaven cradled me and left me in my room. And all I can think is that I am a cat. I am one of those creepy little unblinking creatures Heaven has way too many of.

And if that isn't horrific, I don't know what is.

Now, I kneel in the bathroom, shaky and hunched over the toilet. With the bathroom and bedroom door shut, I take turns sobbing and retching, sobbing and retching. Alone, the tears roll down my face freely. I don't have to laugh in front of Heaven or act cool in front of Angel. I'm alone with my shoddy, disfigured self, and oh, boy, do I cry.

I must look so regal, weeping on the bathroom's floor, wiping strands of vomit off my face. I laugh, and it's a sick little squeak.

I kick the toilet lever down and slam the lid over the toilet bowl. I wash my hands, scrubbing so hard they go red. I'm in panic mode, not thinking, just doing. I shove a glob of toothpaste on my toothbrush and shove it in my mouth, brushing with a mad man's fury to clean out the bile. In the mirror, my hair is all out of place, and I stare, tortured as the flimsy white cat-ears flick up. They itch, and a sick, crawling sensation races up my scalp with each swivel. I contemplate punching out the mirror, but quickly decide that's a bad idea. So instead, I brush my gums until they bleed.

I cried in front of Heaven. I almost stabbed Angel. I'm a mess, a horrible, horrible mess. I'm no super. I can't foil crimes or fight villains, and saving damsels? Forget it. They'd laugh me out the room.

I spit, floss, and garble the whitening mouthwash. The antiseptic smell is overpowering, the inside of my nose burning from the sharp tang. When I finish, I pop in two breath mints and almost hit the floor. The smell is dizzying. I grab the counter for support, wrenched by an ear-splitting headache. My fists clench. Screw this.

I tear through medicine cabinet, spilling every product onto the counter in front of me. Each one has their own, individual, powerful scent. I don't care. I don't care how badly my head hurts, how much my eyes water and how I deep I have to gasp to breathe, I'm still good-looking. I have to be.

I wash my face and glance in the mirror, my eyes puffy and red, my skin pale. As I recoil, my hands fumble faster with the caps of the cylinder containers, my heart thunders in my chest. I screw my nose to the pungent, burning odors. I can do this. I have my looks. I need my looks.

And like that, my body goes into autopilot again. I slap on cream after cream, concealer after concealer, My nose burning so bad I cover it with my hand and try to breathe from my mouth. The tears roll down again, my eye twitching and twitching. My face is on fire. I feel like I caked on poison, but when I look in the mirror, my hair is fixed, the cat ears glued flat. My eyes look less red and my cheeks more ruddy. I look good, so I should feel good too. That's what I was told, you are what you look.

I sigh and snap myself out of it. Angel says sometimes I'm too over dramatic for my own good, and he's right. I still want to punch my reflection out. The combined smell of men's beauty products makes my eyes water.

My fingers fumble with a drawer. I pull out a clean white handkerchief and tie it over my nose. Doesn't block the scents much, and as I prowl back into my room, every smell comes in distinct and clear. The sharp tang of paint. The smell of leftover soup. Traces of hair gel and the papery, bland smell of drywall. It's dizzying.

I throw my face into my comforter. Last Christmas Heaven bought me a black scarf, and I fish for it from under my bed. When I find it, I tie it over my ears and across the lower half of my face. Unlike her, Heaven's scent is mild and soft, so much so it's soothing. In my head, I can hear her voice and see her throwing cookies at me from across the room. I close my eyes, muscles relaxing.