Post by Harmony on Apr 13, 2017 22:43:40 GMT -8
Every night after I wake, I follow the same routine:
I shower, though I know I don't have to. Actually, without the natural production of bodily oils, it'd probably be better that I didn't.
When I get out, I pat myself dry.
I then smooth a mix of almond, rose, and olive oils that my aunt used to use in Greece into my skin and comb it through my hair.
I go to my wardrobe and put on undergarments, then slip into a sundress.
I tie my sandals onto my feet.
Then I sit down at my vanity table.
I run a soft-bristled brush through my still-wet hair until it is dry, then I tie it off to the side.
I put on gold eyeliner
Darken my lashes with mascara
Add pink to my cheeks with blush
and lighten the color of my lips.
I don't want to draw attention to myself. I want to try to look as normal as possible.
I reach for my ring.
But I stop myself just before my hand touches it.
I look at the ring now just under my palm.
I curl my hand into a fist and move it away.
Now that I remember what it is; now that I remember what it represents.
No, this isn't the original ring. This isn't the ring HE gave me and forced me to wear. This is the ring Bernard bought for me when he realized I couldn't leave my room without this part of my routine.
I look at it, as I sit on my stool.
I hate the ring.
So I stand.
I watch the ring like it is poison that will strike at me as I push in my stool.
But I do not feel the fear creep upon me.
I feel oddly defiant.
I move across the room and drape my shawl around my shoulders.
...then look back at the ring.
It hasn't moved...
I move to the door and open it.
I look back at the ring.
And then I walk through the door and close it behind me.
I shower, though I know I don't have to. Actually, without the natural production of bodily oils, it'd probably be better that I didn't.
When I get out, I pat myself dry.
I then smooth a mix of almond, rose, and olive oils that my aunt used to use in Greece into my skin and comb it through my hair.
I go to my wardrobe and put on undergarments, then slip into a sundress.
I tie my sandals onto my feet.
Then I sit down at my vanity table.
I run a soft-bristled brush through my still-wet hair until it is dry, then I tie it off to the side.
I put on gold eyeliner
Darken my lashes with mascara
Add pink to my cheeks with blush
and lighten the color of my lips.
I don't want to draw attention to myself. I want to try to look as normal as possible.
I reach for my ring.
But I stop myself just before my hand touches it.
I look at the ring now just under my palm.
I curl my hand into a fist and move it away.
Now that I remember what it is; now that I remember what it represents.
No, this isn't the original ring. This isn't the ring HE gave me and forced me to wear. This is the ring Bernard bought for me when he realized I couldn't leave my room without this part of my routine.
I look at it, as I sit on my stool.
I hate the ring.
So I stand.
I watch the ring like it is poison that will strike at me as I push in my stool.
But I do not feel the fear creep upon me.
I feel oddly defiant.
I move across the room and drape my shawl around my shoulders.
...then look back at the ring.
It hasn't moved...
I move to the door and open it.
I look back at the ring.
And then I walk through the door and close it behind me.