Whore (Oliver Sykes Fanfic)

Mirror, Mirror

Shay was surprising really good at makeup, which made me want to ask him why that was so. He'd proudly turned me to face the mirror that held my reflection. My eyes widened at the glass. I honestly couldn't contain the happiness that erupted in my chest seeing how I looked right then.
My eyes were rimmed with dark eyeliner and smudged to look smoky. My lips were a pouty dark red that complimented my complexion. My eyes shimmered with a subtle glitter upon my eyelids. My face was clear of any trace of bruising, scars or acne. Shay had made me beautiful, but in doing so, he'd covered up who I was. No need to worry about who I was though, right? People payed for my body, not my personality.
"Ta-da!" Shay said, his hands outstretched and his fingers doing that cheerleader spirit fingers thing. I laughed at him and leaned close to the mirror. I couldn't take my eyes off of myself. "You like?"
"I love it. How did you- Oh my God. Just, wow." My words were clumsy children on ice, sentences incomplete and lacking in proper structure.
"I knew it." He laughed. "You honestly don't wear enough makeup." I glanced back over at him. I preferred to wear just eyeliner and mascara. I didn't need anymore than that, in my opinion. "No one wants to see bruises left by another client. So foundation and concealer are your two best friends now, got me?"
"But, I-" I went to argue. I felt that I'd looked decent enough before, I didn't need to look drop-dead gorgeous, did I?
"Nope. Repeat after me; foundation and concealers are my two best friends." He said even slower, a finger raised to silence me. I rolled my eyes at him.
"Foundation and concealers are my two best friends." I replied flatly. He grinned.
"Good girl. I have to go, I have a client coming soon." He blew me a kiss and skipped out of the room. I turned back to face the mirror. I looked very pretty, no doubt about that. But I felt silly, covered up and doll-like. I felt like plastic, as if I wasn't real. With a simple scrub the true me would burst forth and one might be disappointed. My face was a lie, a sickening and thick-layered lie.
It had started with a simple scrap of fingernails across my cheek. The powder clumping underneath my fingernails. Tears welled into my eyes. I was a lie. And ugly lie. Shay had covered the lie. I heard someone walk into the room and I sniffled and choked back my tears. No need to have a breakdown in front of someone.
"Hey, Holly, have you seen Ashley?" Jake asked me from the doorway. I turned to him and he started laughing. "What the fuck happened to your face?" He asked between fits of laughter.
"I thought I looked good." I mumbled. "And no, I haven't seen Ashley."
"You look like a fucking clown. I don't even get makeup. If you're ugly, you're fucking ugly." Jake threw his head back in laughter. "Whatever, I'm in a good mood now. See you later, Powder Slut." He sauntered away, his steps oozing with confidence I severely lacked. I turned back to the mirror. I was a powered slut.
Aggressively and angrily, I began scrubbing at my face. My skin being rubbed and scrapped raw. Seeing patches of my skin turn pink and red with irritation didn't stop me from viciously scrubbing at the powder upon my face. Black mascara tears fell from my eyes in parallel lines. I scrubbed at my nose so hard it started to bleed, the red stream flowing into my lips. It tasted like copper. The blood dripped a few splatters onto the vanity in front of me, but my face wasn't clean enough.
I wasn't clean enough. I was dirty. Filthy. Disgusting. A disgrace. Why was I doing this to myself? Blotchy and pathetic. The only two words came to mind as I took in my new reflection. So fast had I liked what I'd seen, and now I was repulsed. I stood from the vanity, but the girl in the mirror kept her dead, lifeless gaze on mine. She didn't look like me. But how would I know what I looked like without mirrors? Mirrors didn't lie, and if they did, then we were all doomed for hell.
Looks are the things we associate ourselves with. Even when we say appearance doesn't matter, it does. To an extent. We talk to people who have a look, or remind us of ourselves. How self-centered and conceited? We empathize with people who go through what we have. We care about people who care about us in return, because nothing is free. Trades are fair, barter of equal value or the deal is off.
I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I threw a hairbrush at the girl in the mirror and watched as the glass shattered into tiny pieces of a larger image. The tiny glass shards reminded me of diamonds. A diamond turned into thousands that lay upon the floor. My breathing was ragged as my gaze stayed glued upon the broken mirror that lay on the floor now. Scattered the girl that had stared at me was. Her eyes no longer followed me. I was alone now, only to be haunted by her memory.