Young Writers Society

(This is another story I''ve been kicking around for a while. I promise to write something new eventually. )

Portraits

The masks watched her with impassive, blind stares. They hung linear on the wall opposite the bed. Human abstractions. Self portraits all. Left to right, oldest to most recent. Progressively deformed.

They were all from the same push mold Gloria had been using since her face was cast in plaster back in high school. The first mask was a straight impression of the mold. It was smooth, unglazed white clay. A frozen, fragile form held in her adolescence. From there, they evolved. They stretched. They twisted. Colors were added: violent blues from the eyes and bleeding violets spreading up from the jaws. Some had exaggerated features. Elongated noses. Lips dragged open into gaping maws. Others had features carved completely away. A forehead hole. A missing eye. One face was missing the entire jaw from the upper lip down.

Gloria’s most recent portrait had only been completed a week ago. It was a battered version of the others. She had not stretched these features nor carved them away. She had taken the still wet clay and had beaten it with her fists. One of the eyes smashed inward. The cheekbone and orbital caved into the face. She had punched the mouth from the inside out. It exploded out in sharp ceramic shards. She had fired it twisted and deformed. She had glazed the eye cavern purple and the lips black.

She hammered the final nail into the wall and hung the mask in its place. She stepped away and looked back at the recently assembled installation piece. Completion.

Gloria had never been able to assemble all her portraits together like this. He would never allow it. He hated them. She used to have a few of them on the wall. He said that they looked at him funny…

“Funny? How can they look at you funny? Most of them don’t have eyes.”

His tight jaw and lowered brows said enough. “Take them down.” Take everything down. No holes in the walls. Never holes in the walls…

The wall stood behind her as she turned. She could see it reflected in the mirror. Her own face among the ceramic ones. One of them.

She stepped away from the mirror and back to the faces themselves. The dim light from the table lamp cast eerie shadows of the faces on the wall. She clicked off the lamp.

She left the dark bedroom and walked out to the kitchen. She switched on the light and cringed. Too bright. She shut her eyes and walked by memory to the table. She stood for a minute blinking out the dark and blinking in the light.

The table was covered with the remains of an uneaten dinner. Three empty bottles of Budweiser. Mashed potatoes. Corn on the cob, fresh not frozen, never frozen. And the carcass of a chicken…

“Chicken again.”

“You like chicken.”

“Don’t tell me what I like.” He took a bite. “This chicken is cold.” He had been on His second beer before He had even tasted it.

“I’ll warm it for you.” She reached for the plate and lifted it.

“Leave it.” His hand grabbed her wrist, and the plate fell to the table and splintered. “Damn-it, Gloria. Why you gotta be so clumsy.” He slammed the beer bottle on the table and picked up a third one.

“I’m sorry. I’ll clean this up and get another plate.”

He threw His head back and chugged the beer. “I can get my own dinner.”

Gloria began to pick out pieces of chicken from the glass. The front door slammed rattling the glass.

The glass still littered the table. There had been no rush to clean it up. He would not return until late that night. Same as always.

Still, it needed to be done. She gathered up each little piece of broken plate and sent the pieces tinkling into the trashcan.

She shoved the food down the disposal. She hated the angry grinding sound it made, but the food had to be taken care of. No point in saving it. He wouldn’t stand for leftovers.

She washed the remaining dishes and then surveyed the room for her approval. She wanted everything just right tonight for his return. The table was clean. No sign of the earlier incident. She clicked off the kitchen light and proceeded to the bathroom.

She opened the cabinet door and pulled out the folded towels. They tumbled to the floor in a cascade of terrycloth and fabric softener scent. She reached deep into the back of the cabinet and drew out a plastic drugstore bag. It crinkled in her hand as the contents shifted. She set it aside on the tile floor.

She began to refold the towels. No point in leaving anything unfinished. Once the towels were again contained, she retrieved the bag. Walgreens…

“What did you get at Walgreens?”

“Just some sundries.” She could hear the tremor in her own voice. She didn't expect Him to be standing behind her. Hadn’t she closed the door? She looked up to see Him looming over her, reflected in the bathroom mirror.

“You didn’t buy any makeup, did you?” He asked as He gripped her chin and turned her to face Him. He stroked her cheek hard, inspecting her for makeup. “You know I hate it when you wear that shit.”

“I know. I just bought some of that shampoo you like.” She took His hand and moved it from her cheek. “That’s all.” She gripped the bag tightly…

She gripped the bag so tightly that her nails made little cat-claw dents on her palm.

Gloria took a breath and willed herself to relax. No time for second thoughts.

She took the bag to the bedroom and set it down on the bedside table. She clicked on the lamp and the room was filled with the same dull light as before.

The masks watched her with closed eyes, empty eyes, no eyes, her eyes. She looked back at them. At her creations. Her hand fell to her stomach as she sat on the bed. Her bed. Their bed. His bed…

She had been in bed, asleep when she heard the noise. His keys in the door, boots on the hard wood floor. He always made so much noise when He came in late. Late and drunk. She pretended to stay asleep, hoped He would not notice her.

The mattress shifted as he crawled into bed beside her. He smelled of beer and sweat.

She laid still, her back to him.

Firm hands rolled her over.

“Don’t…”

Don’t think about that, she told herself. It doesn’t matter now.

The eyes of the masks continued to look down at her. At the bed.

Don’t think…

“Don’t.”

He turned her face to his and crushed her lips with his mouth. He climbed on top of her and crushed her body with his.

“Get off me and just go to sleep.” She tried to roll out from under him.

“Shh.” He covered her lips and pushed…pushed…pushed her into the bed…

The bed was cold beneath her hand. A cool breeze blew in through the open window chilling the surface of the comforter. Something brushed Gloria’s leg.

A corner of the top sheet had crept out from under the comforter and was moving in the breeze. That wouldn’t do.

She stood and stripped the comforter and blankets, revealing the errant sheet. She tucked the corner back under the mattress and followed suit with the blanket, wrapping the bed up tight. The smooth comforter resisted being wrestled back onto the bed…wrestled…bed…

“Don’t think!”

Gloria pulled the comforter from the bed and left it lying in a heap on the floor. The sheets shone naked and pale on the bed.

She crossed beneath the wall of masks to the bedside table where she had left the Walgreens bag.

The bag sat illuminated under the lamp. She opened the plastic bag and pulled out the contents.

She set the little cardboard box back on the table. A crinkly instruction pamphlet was next. It leaned against its box. She arranged it so it was propped up to full effect.

Gloria drew the last item from the bag with a quiet reverence. She held the plastic wand in her hand for a moment, looking at it. Such a little thing. Beige plastic. Fit in the hand. So light, it had almost no weight. A little window. A blue plus sign.

She set the wand plus side up on prominent display in front of its box.

She sighed. Almost time. Just a few more touches.

She left the display and went to the mirror that sat atop the dresser. She opened a drawer and pulled out a small bundle. She laid it open on the surface of the dresser. Little brushes. Creams. Colored powders…You know I hate it when you wear that shit.

She studied her face in the mirror, peering intently into the glass. The faces of the masks slid out of focus.

She opened a little vial and slipped her finger over the cool cream inside. She brought the concealer to her face. To the fading purple discoloration under her eyes. It glided soothingly over her skin. Sank into her pores.

The bruises nearly disappeared under the makeup. Only a faint shadow remained. She gathered the cosmetics and set the bundle on the bed.

On hands and knees, she reached deep under the king sized bed and pulled out a suitcase. She dragged the full case to the bed. It pulled a corner of the sheet loose as it dragged across the surface of the bed. Gloria didn’t bother to fix it.

She opened the handles to expose the contents. Folded between books and shoes, lay clothes. The crisp fabric had so long held their folds that the creases did not relax when Gloria pushed them aside to make room for the makeup bag.

She surveyed the room. Anything else to be done?

The bed she had tried to make now sat in the middle of the room nearly stripped. It was with near satisfaction that she noticed the sheet strayed loose on her side of the bed.

Her latest work of art stood on His bedside table. It was perfectly spotlighted by the table lamp.

Finally, she looked to her display of masks. Left to right. Her work. Her life.

Her eyes kept coming back to the first mask. The simple white casting of her adolescent face. It stood out from the others. Untouched.

Her hand was drawn to the ceramic skin. It was cold, smooth, delicate. She took the mask from the wall and held the weight of it. Deceptively heavy.

She opened the suitcase and wrapped the mask between sweaters. She would not leave her behind.

The wall seemed empty now. The nail exposed. It needed something.

Gloria stood for a minute staring at the empty place. Feeling the weight of the suitcase drive her rings into her skin. Still staring at the empty nail, she set the case down. She pulled the rings from her left hand. They dragged her knuckle raw.

The rings hung on the nail like two miniature, hollow faces. Now, completion.

She picked up her bag and left the room.

The front door slammed