Page 45 of My Dark Divine
Hot tears seep through my lashes, blending with the glue and a thick layer of mascara, blurring my vision and turning my surroundings into an indistinguishable mess as I keep scratching, smearing, and clawing at my skin that I hate so fucking much. I can barely feel my hands when I’m finished—even wiping off the makeup feels like too much effort.
A sob wracks my throat, which already feels sore, and I cover my eyes, letting my tears wash over my swollen face. My skin burns, and I can feel the deep red staining me—a testament to the hysterical mess I’ve become.
I don’t react when the door clicks open, nor when I hear footsteps approaching. All I want is to crawl back into bed and sleep for the rest of the day.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?” West asks, his voice laced with confusion and concern. “Why are you crying?”
I shake my head, my hands still covering my face. “I can’t do my hair,” I mumble, sensing the impending blackout from lack of oxygen. Finally, I pull my hands back, exposing my sensitive skin to the biting air. “It doesn’t curl the way it should.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel his stare boring into the side of my face as he tries to understand why I’m causing yet another scene. It seems like I’m always the one who ruins everything, as if I have a knack for fucking things up.
“Then let’s go without curling it,” he suggests hesitantly. “It looks perfect the way it is.”
I shake my head, that single thought adding to my frustration. Stepping outside with my hair unstyled terrifies me. My mom always did my hair before I left the house. It had become part of my routine, especially after her death—bringing a piece of her with me, even when she wasn’t there. She was the only one who knew exactly what I should do and how to do it. I can’t bring myself to go out like this. I won’t look the same.
At this point, I’d rather stay in the room.
“It needs to be styled,” I cry out, hating how desperate I sound. I can feel my stubbornness aggravating him more with every second, but I can’t stop myself. Grabbing the hairbrush from the table, I start attacking the mess I’ve made, scratching at my scalp with rough, painful strokes to even the hair before I try again. “I won’t go out like this. I won’t?—”
“Sweet Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, closing the distance between us in a few quick strides. He tries to snatch the hairbrush from my hands, but I tighten my grip until I feel my bones crack, never stopping my frantic clawing at my scalp.
It feels like I’m stuck in a trance, unable to stop what I’ve begun. I’ve already messed up my face, so my hairhasto match.
“Stop, stop, stop it.” West squeezes my hand, gently prying my grip loose. Despite my resistance, his strength easily overpowers mine. With a shaky breath, I release the hairbrush, a cold relief settling on my scalp. I clasp my fingers in one hand and lower my head, ready to distract myself by picking at the skin around my nails.
Because I know what’s coming next.
He gathers a few strands from my chest, gently sweeping them behind me. As his fingers glide through, untangling the knots, he lifts the hairbrush to the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the pain. A vivid memory crashes into my thoughts—each failure met with Mom’s fierce grip yanking my hair, the brush tearing through with such brutal force that I often wondered how I stayed intact.
I can still hear the snap, feel the harsh thud of the hairbrush striking my skull, and experience the dull ache that followed. The memory lingers so strongly that I can taste the bitterness of my punishment and hear her acid-laced words echoing in my ears.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
But as his slow, careful strokes begin, the memory dissolves into nothing. He untangles the chaos I’ve created, each movement soft and intentional. A chill sweeps over me, and for a fleeting moment, I forget to breathe.
When I open my eyes, I meet his focused expression in the mirror. His hand, far larger than the brush, moves methodically, massaging my damaged hair with a tenderness that leaves me motionless. Pulling my hands apart, I place them on the table, defeatedly reaching back to my foundation.
I feel a strange kind of warmth—not just from his action, but from the care behind it.
“How do you do it?” he asks, and my body instinctively flinches at the rough edge of his tone. He’s still the West I hate, but now he feels out of sync with his persona.
“Do what?” I whisper, barely able to find my voice.
He sets the brush down on the table, and I nearly whimper, yearning for him to continue. “How do you curl your hair? Is there any… I don’t know, fucking instruction, at least?”
I pause, my eyes welling up with fresh tears. I’d forgotten how much more I had to do. While I might manage to fix my face, my hair is a different story. My arms ache too much, and the process feels like it would take forever. “No—” I hesitate, unsure how to respond. “I don’t know.”
I really don’t. It’s a routine my mother always performed for me, and I never understood how I memorized all those steps.
He sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. In silence, he types something, his expression shifting into one of focus until a sound starts playing from the screen. It takes a moment to realize what he’s turned on.
A video tutorial.
My lips part in shock, but no words come out. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs, leaving me gaping at his reflection in the mirror, disbelief running through my bloodstream. I fidget in my seat as he sets the phone on the table, grabs the curler, and watches the video with intense focus. His crystal eyes flicker between the screen and my hair before he carefully separates a strand and wraps it around the tool.
A strange sensation stirs in my stomach, climbing up to my chest and exploding beneath my ribcage. It grows at least thirty times stronger when I catch the small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Easier than I thought,” he says proudly, showing me the perfectly curled strand in the mirror.
