REVELATION ⏤ michael langdon

𝖔𝖓𝖊. 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

𝖔𝖓𝖊. 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

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          The pain was worse the second time. It was excruciating. Agony consumed her body within seconds. Her skin produced cracks; her hair turned to white; her eyes sunk in her skull, but there was still no blood. She spent an eternity living in darkness, staring at a void: a blank space with nothing but the Empty by her side.

          She was lonely. She was suffering. But for some reason unbeknownst to her, she wanted to stay. Except she couldn't.

          Life engulfed her and brought her back to Earth. She has no memory of this. No one does. It's as if she never died. People who know her now remember spending time with her, and she remembers spending time with them. The gaps have been filled. Life goes on.

          Daphne Turner lives in the year 2018. She resides in a beat-up studio apartment near the salon she works at in West California. She spends her days cutting, brushing, styling—basically anything that has to do with hair—for the last four years. As much as she would like to do something else for a change, she couldn't bring herself to do it. It's as if she refuses to do something else simply because she doesn't have to. She has no grand plan to move out whatsoever. She doesn't think she's getting married anytime soon, and having a baby is out of the question.

          And so she cuts. Snip, snip, snip. It's the same sound she hears everyday. A repetitive, endless loop.

          Mr. Gallant may just be the only one keeping her sane. He's just as lavish as his customers, with his hair drenched in bleach and his outfits overdone, but when the salon doors close, he's a friend (maybe even the only friend she has in that lifetime and the last), so she finds it infuriating that Gallant refuses to tell her his first name.

          "Is it really that bad?" she asked him once. She vaguely remembers Gallant rushing off to attend to one of his customers, waving a pair of scissors around as he happily avoids the question once more.

          "Not at all, darling! I just don't think anyone's ready to know it yet," he responded, and that was the last time she brought up his first name until today.

          A blonde walks in with her heels loudly tapping against the tiles of the salon, as if she really wanted everyone to watch her make her way past the counter and straight to a cushioned seat because the employees already knew her. Her face is beat with layers of foundation and ruby red lipstick. Not to mention, her hair could barely keep up with her with the amount of spray net she used to tame her extensions. But what's saddening is that people know exactly who she is; not because of her undoubtedly stunning aura and rising social media following, but because of her father's blatant successes.

          "Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt is here," Daphne whispers to Gallant after he had just finished drying his hands. She likes saying her full name for the fun of it. It's the one thing Daphne liked about her friend's most regular and royal customer.

          "And for once, she's right on time," Gallant says this loud enough for Coco to hear, but all she does is slip her phone out of her purse, typing away to what might be another update on her Twitter timeline.

          "Actually, she has two more minutes to spare," a soft voice chimes in. Both Daphne and Gallant turn to see Coco's longest lasting assistant, Mallory, speak proudly after having to bare yet another earful from her boss for choosing the wrong Instagram filter. The reasons as to why Coco scolds her are beyond preposterous. Though it really isn't her place, Daphne advises her to look for a better job, one worth her time. She knows Mallory is educated; she could tell by the way she corrects Coco's statements by mumbling to herself. Mallory could easily get a good starter job if she wanted to, but for some unknown reason, she remains a pet tied to Coco's leash.