Page 128 of Cruel Pleasures
The air feels suffocating and dank, nauseating from the rotting stench that feels inescapable. I hold my breath as best I can as I close in on her. My arm stretches out, my teeth gritted in determination.
Just a little bit faster…
“Ahhh!” she shrieks.
I’ve tackled her from behind.
My arms lock around her as we tip over and tumble the rest of the way down the slanted, narrowing passage.
I’m up before she is once we’ve rolled to a stop. Bursting from the anger and frustration welled up inside me, I wind my foot back and then kick her hard in the ribs. Gripping her by the front of her gown, I draw my fist back for another hit.
Then I pause.
The Hostess’s mask has finally slipped all the way off.
She lays under me, staring up with a face that I never imagined she would have—she’s beautiful.
Vivid blue eyes and high cheekbones that many pay good money for and a diamond-shaped face that’s framed by scarlet hair.
There’s no denying she’s beautiful today and must’ve been beautiful in her youth.
But that’s not all.
I recognize her face from the woman in the marble statue. The one she just destroyed when mocked by Archer.
My stomach flips from the shock of what I’m seeing. I had expected someone with a face worthy of a Picasso painting. Someone deeply disfigured that would explain the mask she hid behind.
Instead, the revelation unsettles me more than any disfigurement.
I rear back, my brows drawn close as if I’m too confused for words.
“There’s…” I trail off. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
The corner of her lip quirks. “Of course there is. Don’t you see it? Can’t you tell?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“It’s me,” she answers. “He didn’t want me anymore. My face, my body, it all disgusted him. But he loved her. He wanted her. He didn’t want me anymore.”
Lost as to what she’s rambling about, I take a step away from her.
“Do you know what it’s like? To not be wanted anymore? To be all alone? Discarded like trash.”
“Actually… I do. My father abandoned my family. It drove my mother into a deep depression she never really came out of.”
“Then we have more in common than what appears on the surface. What do they say? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Can you believe he didn’t want me anymore?” she repeats yet again.
“Look, none of your fucked up problems have anything to do with me.”
She cackles. “It had everything to do with you the moment you involved yourself. Look around you, you idiot girl. There won’t be any escape for you.”
It’s when I first notice where we’ve landed.
We’re surrounded by mirrors.
The dressing room has changed into some kind of room of mirrors. They rise up along the walls, offering a full-length view from every possible angle. In the middle is a vanity table with delicate perfume bottles, a hairbrush, and a handheld mirror for even more intimate study of one’s reflection.
The Hostess uses the couple seconds I’m distracted by our surroundings to hop onto her feet.
