Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“I hate that all the drama surrounding me lately has intruded on his art, on this lovely scent I’m truly honored to represent.”
I grip the sides of the podium, pressing my elbows against the wood to scaffold myself.
“This is all because I dared to speak out against a man who hurt me, a man I suspect has hurt other women the same way. He’s a powerful man,” I say. “And I’m not the first victim he’s tried to silence and to intimidate. He’s succeeded before.”
I press my lips close enough to the mic to smear my lipstick.
“But I’m still here, Mr. Manchester, and my story remains the same. You may find people to call me a whore. You may find people who will call me a homewrecker. You may even send some to march out front and call me a murderer, but you will never, ever find anyone who can call me a coward, and I’m not backing down.”
There’re cameras everywhere. I find one to look directly into, narrowing my eyes with all the indignation and fury building in me with atomic force.
“Me, you won’t silence,” I tell Kyle. “Me, you can’t make go away.”
And with that, I allow Geena to pull me off the stage, to bundle me into a waiting car at the rear of the hotel. To smuggle me into my building, managing to avoid all the press out front. She herds me along, and I let her, but as soon as we reach my apartment, I stop her at the door. I stare her down, and just shake my head, closing the door in her face and locking it.
For a moment, I just stand there, unable to process any of it. Then the fortress I’ve built around my emotions starts crumbling. That thick skin that crusted over and is now as tough as an old scab covering an ancient wound cracks open. I wondered how it would feel when they found something sharp enough to cut through all the layers. I didn’t know they’d come with an ice-tipped stiletto. I didn’t know they would plunge it through my heart.
All the pain comes at once, like an avalanche I can’t ward off. The old pain of what Kyle did to me, what he took from me. My parents’ betrayal, a lifetime of their indifference. Losing my work with the foundation, the closest I’ve ever come to doing good. The violent ignominy of Seville’s confrontation. All the insults and innuendos piled on my head and shoulders for the last few weeks. I feel it all and at once, and it is so much heavier, so much harder to bear than I thought it would be.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. The Goddess looks back at me—perfect, composed, beautiful. She’s such a lie. Such a shell, good for nothing but covering up pain. I hate her. I want this fucking signature color—this green—off my back. I claw at the neckline until it gives a satisfying rip, exposing my bra beneath. I peel the dress away, tossing it across the bathroom to land in my sunken tub. I kick off my shoes and strip away my underwear until I face myself naked.
And it’s still not enough.
My hair swings down my back, the hair that so fascinated Esteban Ruiz. I’d wake up to him running his fingers through it every morning in Milan. I rummage through my bathroom drawer, searching for my shears. I’ve seen women do this in movies and wondered what’s the point of cutting your hair at your breaking point? Where is the relief in that? I can’t speak for the many women who’ve gone before me into the cutting cliché, but for me it’s the weight. The weight of other people’s opinions, their judgments. It’s the lie of my identity entwined with something that hangs around my shoulders, but is already dead.
At the first snip, I wait for the weight to lift. If I can just shed these trappings, this artifice, that lie about my pain, I’ll feel lighter. I’ll feel better. I snip again, lopping off a slivery chunk of hair and watching it waft to the marble floor.
Nothing. Still no lighter.
Tears boil in my throat, running over my cheeks like hot water as I snip and chop and clip until I’m standing in a silvery pool of my own making, the pile of hair silky against my bare feet and ankles. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and finally the Goddess is gone. In her place is a naked girl with butchered hair. Tears have washed her makeup away, and mascara streaks her face in sooty trails. A bright red scratch across her cheek stands out like an exclamation mark.
I sink to the cold floor, falling onto my side and pulling my knees to my chest, rolling myself up until I’m as small as an atom. With nothing left to cover me, I finally feel the pain, and it is awful, but it is real. It is true. I can’t hide from it anymore.