The mirror is the only one that sees the daily ritual.
The tubes and bottles come out of hiding in drawers and shelves, piled into one heap on the counter.
She tweezes.
She plucks.
She paints.
She pastes all the goo on in some form of order to create the image of woman that is what the world needs to see. Order comes out of the chemical chaos on the counter.
Or does it?
The mask falls as she stares at her tinted lips, her crusted lashes, her flesh-colored flesh.
What's the point?
Breaking point is reached as the bottles fall into the wastebasket. The tubes, the tints, sliding into each other as they travel downward.
Scrubbing with soap then, the water too hot and burning slightly. Staring at her face, reddened by the force of her hands, chemical free.
She can see her eyes again.
Rescued by The Nodeshell Rescue Team.