Thy Kingdom Come

It’s now or never, indeed.

Jolting up, I race through my bedroom and turn on my laptop. I search for the song which is on a loop inside my head and press play. The moment it sounds, I stagger backward, clutching my chest.

I want to claw out of my skin.

I see my ma’s bloody face as she reaches for me, her twisted body as the knife cuts through her flesh with ease. I see it all. The memories I tried so hard to remember come flooding back, and I do the only thing I can.

My room appears ransacked as I hunt for them, and when I find them, they tremble in my hand.

With Elvis on repeat, I collectedly walk into the bathroom and sweep everything off the vanity. Staring at my reflection, I laugh maniacally, certain I’ve lost what small shred of sanity I’ve clung to.

Reaching for the container, I unscrew the lid, humming in happiness because I’ve come home. Picking up the brush, I dip the bristles into the makeup—appropriately named clown white—and commence spreading the paint across my face.

Before long, my face is slathered in white paint. The starkness concealing the red and purple bruises allows me to be someone else. But this is just a blank canvas, just like my mum needed to create the paintings which transported her away from this cruel thing they call life.

I swap the white paint for the black, and with a thi

But it’s not enough.

Coating the brush bristles in black, I color in my nose, paying homage to the white makeup I just applied.

My eyes are next.

With precision, I paint around them, accenting the darkness with strokes branching out from the blackness. They come out like tentacles, and when I join one with a single stroke to my nose, I smile, happy with the brutality.

I shade in the strokes, adding depth, adding carnage to the grotesque man beneath this mask. My skull face represents the demons inside of me.

It’s perfect.

The white container drops into the sink, going round and round, the imagery similar to what’s going on inside my head.

Reaching for the tube of black body paint, I unscrew the lid and squirt it over my neck and chest, where I run my fingers through it, coating my skin black. With the leftover paint, I flick it over my ear and down my face, envisioning it red as it resembles blood—the blood my mum spilled.

I leave black handprints on the white sink as I grasp it and lean closer into the mirror, studying my creation. This is who has remained hidden all these years. Hidden away in a wardrobe, waiting for the memories to revive him.

Now is that time.

However, there is one last thing I need to do. A mask is never complete without any wounds.

Unscrewing the container, I peer into the red paint, the slickness singing to the depravity which lives inside me—it always has. I smear three fingers in red and stare into the mirror as I slowly sweep downward across the middle of my forehead.

These signify the three lives who ruined mine. But after tonight, I wonder, how many more I need to add?

My hair is still wet from my shower, so I run my fingers through it, styling it so it’s tousled. The tattoo on my knuckles catches the light, and my ma’s name almost shines.

“I’ll avenge ya. I promise ya that,” I avow to my mirror image. “I don’t care what y’ve done. If he was the one who took yer life…then I’ll take his.”

My entire life has been based on a lie.

This is the first time I’ve painted my face this way since that night. I remembered because of the photograph, but tonight, I painted it from memory, and that only ignites my need for revenge.

My face is the canvas, and this painting is one I wear with pride. Each stroke is in honor of my ma, and I will bear this mask to punish those who hurt her.

Suddenly, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and without a sound, I reach for the gun in the top drawer of the vanity. Elvis muffles my footsteps as I creep through the bathroom, peering around the doorjamb into the living room, gun poised and ready to use, but who I see has the depravity reflected on my face burning my soul.

Why is she here?

She stands in front of the charcoal sketching hanging over the fireplace, her head cocked to the side as if attempting to decode what each stroke means. Good luck to her. This is a look inside my mind. It doesn’t make sense—up is down, down is up. Nothing is what it seems…just like me.

Her blonde hair is loose, and I have the urge to wrap it around my fist as she drops to her knees before me. These thoughts need to stop, but I lost control the moment I met her. She intrigues me because without a doubt, she’s not who she says she is.

I sure as shite don’t trust her, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her. And so, I do the one thing I’ve not done before—I give in.

With a measured pace, I walk into the living room, and the closer I get to her, the hotter the fire burns. She is pure sin wrapped in a big red bow. When I’m feet away, she spins quickly, her trance broken, but when she sees me, she gasps, taking a step back.

I wonder what she sees.

I come to a stop, thrilled by the way her heated gaze openly examines me. I’m in nothing but ripped black jeans. But I imagine my face is what she’s most intrigued and…terrified by. A breath escapes her as she walks forward, closer and closer until she halts.

We stand face-to-face, inches apart, not saying a word.

Wearing this mask allows me to study her without reluctance because I feel like someone other than me. There has always been an attraction between us, but something feels different. This feels like we’re at a crossroads, and the direction we choose to take will change the course of everything.

Babydoll bites her bottom lip, appearing to weigh over her next move, and when she reaches out with hesitation, I realize why that is. With two fingers, she cautiously caresses down my cheek, examining the design beneath her touch.

She doesn’t know the story of why I would choose to paint my face this way. This war paint is as much a part of me as my neutral face, and I suppose in some ways, I wear two faces.

“What does this mean?” she whispers, her eyes chasing her touch.

“This is my true face,” I reply, standing perfectly still when she runs her fingers along the line across my cheek and traces the slashes over my mouth. “Everythin’ else is just a pretty distraction.”

She strokes over my lip piercing, taking a moment to digest what I’ve just shared. “Why does this face look so…sad?”

Sad?

To most, this makeup would appear frightening, monstrous, but of course, Babydoll isn’t like most.

“Why’re ya here?” I question, peering down at her, the closeness between us suddenly not close enough.

Her fingers are leading to my forehead, but my hand snaps out, capturing her wrist. “What do these three lines mean?”

She sees the significance for what it is and doesn’t disregard it as merely a theatrical flair. She seems to understand that each stroke serves a purpose, that nothing was done by accident. How can she read me so well?

“Their lives are mine,” I ambiguously answer, eyes locked with hers. “I know who they are…it’s only a matter of time.”