The Beggar's Beauty

Gently, she pressed the powder and danced around her eye. Flashing, searing burns intensified with each touch, forcing her to tears. The swelling went from immense to only slight. On with the show she thought to herself. Her nails, smeared in a rosy red polish with one chipped from her jeweled finger, dug into the wood. As she stood, her legs trembled and each step would be heavier than the last. She looked into the mirror and behind her was an amorphous shadow; but, as she turned, there was only the familiar black curtain laughing at her. Screaming. Her ears twitched as the hollers devolved into conniving whispers and pulses. As she glanced back into the mirror, she saw her mouth being pried open forcibly, with her cheeks feeling like they were being ripped apart. She turned back smiling as the curtain began to open. She muttered “Brick by Brick” like she did each night. 

A piercing light caused her pupils to constrict when she looked forward. There was an ocean of black with steady beams from lost, passing ships of men, whistling and making animalistic noises. Yet, she saw nothing but the stage and a microphone. She grasped it, a freezing rush came through her like she was naked, laying in snow. “Sing Canary, Sing!” they yelled. If they looked at her face, would they still yell for her to fly? She wondered. However, she knew they were not looking there but through her. Then came the horns and the keys of the piano with a jazzy melody, making the lights in the oiled ocean sway with the tune. The darkness of the void closed in on her until she stood in the sphere of light, alone. She closed her eyes to conceal her tears, somberly singing “Am I Blue?” by Ethel Waters.

Her hands rubbed her arms, clinging onto her triceps. Her nails dug into the skin as he would do to her. Shivers in the center of her chest led to a field of goosebumps. She felt each strand of hair on the back of her neck like a flowing river pushing into her. Each crack in her lips could be felt with the edges of her mouth having a slight stick. Her diaphragm emptied with her heart carried in her pitch. CLICK. The reflection in her eyelids were suddenly a tinted orange. She opened to see an empty room with all the lights on, a foot exiting through the auditorium with another click of the door closing. Lips trembling…hands too. She was merely a ghost, wailing to passerbys once again. She collected the stained bills in front of her. Enough for rent. There was a sigh of realization, then of exhaustion. She walked off to collect her things, still singing.

Near midnight, there was no sign of any stars. The only sources of light were street lamps on her walk back to their apartment. The air was thin. It was quiet. She wore a turquoise coat with bronze flowers and stems. Never bothering with the sleeves, she kept her arms huddled on the inside as she paced. She admired quaint architecture, often stopping to rest her sore feet on a step. Blistered and calloused, sometimes bleeding. She tended to them with bandages and disinfectants she kept in her purse, the smell of the alcohol being all too familiar. She could not help but bite her lip, squirming like a writhing mouse in a snake’s jaws. Clinched eyes like that of a child’s first time to the doctor. 

“I like your dress," an unknown voice commented.

Frantically opening her eyes and looking to her right, she saw a man standing. His black winter hat folded to show his crusted ears. An ungroomed beard with a gray, stained hoodie that did not match his military pants and boots. Her initial thought was to scream and run from this transient, but, instinctively, she said “Thank you.” He smiled and responded in-kind. “Bandage yourself a lot?” he wondered, noticing her meticulously wrapped her foot. Remaining silent, she stared in fear, unable to articulate a response. He stepped towards her, initiating a reach. His hand was finely manicured. Nails trimmed low with what seemed like smooth fingers. She grabbed her bag immediately and handed it to him, knowing what he wanted. Gently, he set her bag down and extended his hand to her. He gazed at her invitingly, saying “I’m Victor.” Almost willing, yet refusing, she would not give her hand to him. She fell for that trick before. Victor stepped back. He maintained his grin as he bid her adieu. She stayed on the stairs while he walked away whistling a familiar tune. Staring forward, the flickers of a dying fluorescent hid a shadowed figure with elongated arms coming towards her. She ran.

She rose from her covers, drenched in sweat. A winding, deep breath. The sheet below weighed heavier. When peeling back the blanket, what hid under it was a tattered body with splotches of deep purple imperfections. She turns to her left and lets out a sigh of joy. An empty bed. The stillness of the dark was peaceful. She turned on the lamp next to her, highlighting a framed photograph on her nightstand. Still dazed, her foggy eyes only picked up on one detail: a cross. Her eyes finally adjusted to see the time.

Brick by Brick. Focus, focus, focus!

She made her way to the bathroom. On the marble counter was a maroon bag, filled with Clé de Peau, Ulta, and Hourglass. The thistles of a brush gently swayed along her neck, spreading an oak-tan concealer. Her lashes curled. Her brows plucked. The plastered wall behind her, broken by a forceful strike of dominance or love, loomed as she fell into a daze of procedural memory. A cycle broken when the stinging pitch of a parking car interrupted.

Back to her perch, a white chair that squeaked with the slightest motion. The skin of the wooden desk in front of her peeled. Her fingers gnawed at it making holes like divots. The inner wall of her cheek squeezed in between her teeth. Her head felt as though it was swelling, filling with water. She remained focused as the curtain stared back. It gently waved in a taunting fashion. Damned thing, she thought, wishing it would have been a wall. They opened and she was greeted with the familiar high-pitched whistles and the aroma of mediocre shampoo disguising the stench of grease and sweat. However, the smell became sharper and more metallic as the night carried on…like that of blood. She ignored it. Or at least she tried. The audience raved and cheered while she sang, but the sounds descended into screams of agony and mutilation one would expect to find in the depths of an inferno. She tried to block it out, focusing on what she could see: black. But even that was no refuge. Flashes banged and banged. Fireworks in her eyes and soon, sobbing. As if descending into madness, she fled the stage while it appeared that the audience laughed on. She ran out the door with it slamming loudly behind her.

She felt the chill of the night air once again, fleeing to the pseudo-sanctity of their apartment. It was somewhat calming, so she wandered. Some people were out in a drunken stupor and with glee. She noted a man with a cane and a pipe crossing near Pershing Elementary. He reminded her of a late father, who walked his child to school always in a hurry and with a grimace. Then came the anachronistic beast, layered by sand and molding. It towered her with broken teeth and shattered irises. Her childhood home did not give as much comfort as she thought it would. She had not seen it since her smile was genuine. Since the hands of ancestors pressed the bricks into something suitable. Brick by Brick, she remembered the voice of an old man. There was one notable difference however: a tent in the alley adjacent. The tent pitched low with only one entry point. It was similar to one she had in her youth. Bewildered and oddly curious, she approached close enough to hear a man humming. “You really do have a lovely voice” said the man as he exited the tent, revealing it to be the same transient from the other night. She backed away slowly as if she were staring at a starving animal. He extended a canteen to her.

“I’m Victor.” 

As she prepared to leave, she saw more people cheerfully walk by, glimpsing and imagining for a moment that it was her. She stared back. Cautiously, she chose to accept his kind gesture. “Thank you,” she replied. She chose to take a swig, briefly revealing marks on her upper biceps as she grabbed with both hands. Victor looked upsettingly. “How about your name? I like to know who I share a drink with.” She had a difficult time replying with the citrusy burn momentarily collapsing her throat. 

“Amanya.” she ruggedly replied.

“So you do speak…I began to wonder if you only sang” said Victor playfully. “What brought you over this way?”

Amanya pondered momentarily, glancing down at the rubble beneath her.

“Needed something familiar, I guess.” She asked “Why are you here instead of…” and stopped awkwardly. Her cheeks grew pale. She grew wary of her words and inadvertently insulting this man. 

“A shelter?” He snarkily laughed, easing Amanya’s inner anxiety in the process. “I’d rather be in a place I want to be…” He drank some more. “I’ll make my own bed and make sure I’m happy lying in it.”

She tensed her body, staring at her legs and abdomen. She knew what was beneath it all. Wounds, scars, hospital visits.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes jumping between her own and the marks on her arm he had seen earlier. 

Amanya gently pulled away, spinning the ring on her finger, tempted to remove it. She gathered her composure to not show her emotions to a stranger. Yet, Victor was comforting. Her smile felt natural rather than contorted. She was happy. Looking back at Victor, she noticed the dimples in his face and the way his cheeks rose with his laugh. His mannerisms, like rubbing his thumb constantly across the tips of his fingers, and his eyes, following hers, showed to her a gentleman. 

“I take it you were an Army man?” she asked.

“You can tell, huh? Is it the pants?” he replied.

“The boots actually,” as they both giggled. “You tied them like you actually know what you’re doing.”

“I try to sometimes, or I used to anyway” he said.

Amanya felt that they were like leftovers, abandoned. Victor grasped the canister, swinging it gently to hear the liquid splash along the inner wall. In his ear, there was grace in its flow. She did not understand.

“Some people focus on things like cars or rain and thunder,” he explained. “This tin, your voice… It's a foundation, something that can’t be defined by anyone but me.”

She struggled to follow his words. The sun began to peak its head. With time beginning to run away, Amanya softly thanked him for a lovely night. She walked away smiling, hoping to see him again.  

She was late for her show the next night. The stage looked more worn this particular evening with shades of brown and chips caving in. Some of the stage light bulbs had blown, dimming the color to a faded orange. The lighthouses sprinkled amongst the black sea in front of Amanya became more blinding. Doris Day would be tonight’s showcase, the first song being “Dream a Little Dream of Me”. Despite the shouts of joy and verbal praise often accompanied by leftover saliva, to her, it was just another night. She could only think back to Victor, his good heart, and she wondered if he was in the room with her. There was comfort in knowing that someone cared. She sang intensely, nearly pressing the microphone against her pillowed lips. The theatre reverberated with gaiety and merrymen. Amanya looked toward the vast ocean with excitement she had not felt in some time, yet she noticed a red light. A strange sensation returned as fear grew like a tumor. The shining lights corrupted to a crimson glow. Sirens muffled by windows, vibrating the glass. Lungs skipping and catching. She lost consciousness.

Amanya awoke to a radio buzzing near her ear. Severe thunderstorm approaching. Her previous apparel was traded for a weightless gown that was inconsistently white. The various jewels she adorned laid on a metal tray wrapped in a plastic bag. Next to it were flowers of matching colors in a bouquet. The vase had a hint of purple and she watched as a single drop walked down the glass. She picked up a card next to the flowers, discovering that they were from her alley friend. Before reading the card in its entirety, Amanya paused at the sight in a reflection. Her lips now seemed gray and her skin dead. She thought perhaps she was in a morgue. Her beauty kit, jumbled in the bag, came to a daring, decadent rescue. She scrambled. In her desperation, she skipped the powder formula and went straight for the cream, adding pops of blush to the apples of her cheeks. The elbow pit of her arm stung simultaneously. “What a sloppy job,” she muttered under her breath. The plenitude of charred-tear specks were sprinkled around her eyes. She closed them to wipe away the pieces. When they were opened, a looming presence returned. A humanoid shadow towered over her bed, bent over and looking down at her with veined eyes. Small puddles of blood as if vessels were popped in them. Malleable tentacles mimicking strands of hair. Patterns across its body that appeared to be bronze flowers. She hid under the covers, covering her ears…wishing he, maybe Victor, were there with her. 

Departing from the hospital, Amanya stared into the night sky, seeing the different shades of the moon. She was tired. Walking to the shared abode, a growing discomfort slouched her shoulders and hung her head. The cycle of insanity was overwhelming until she looked at the flowers. Walking in the direction of her childhood home, she decided to see Victor again. She passed the school once again to see the dilapidated building. As she turned to the alley, she paused. The tent was gone. She looked around to no avail. In a blink, the shadow stood in front of her motionless. Enraged, she screamed and ran into the house. Amanya paused once again. The interior held well. The paint on the walls managed to hold well. The frames of her family hung steady. The rooms were like time capsules of forgotten times. Her old room dawned a portrait of her with her hair tied in a nursing uniform. Her first microphone that was gifted to her hung from her closet door. She strolled down the hall and saw a white door with a dark knob. Opening it, Amanya saw a mattress with a sidebar. She sat on the edge, feeling the cloth as wrinkles followed her fingers. At the door was the shadow once more; however, she paid it no mind as she focused on her father’s nightstand. His signature green flask was still sealed. Her thumb wiped the dust off into the air as she held it to her chest. Light began to peak through the shattered window on the opposite side of the room. The shadow retreated. She left in peace, ready for one last show.

Backstage once again, the mirror looked at Amanya with itchy, dry eyes. She intially chose to wear sunglasses, to hide her lack of sleep and the sharpness of the lights around her. Crashing thunder shook the building. The roof drowned in silence as most things do. Brick by Brick she thought to herself, daydreaming of the strongest person she once knew and what made a home. Glancing in the mirror, Victor stood there extending his hand to her with his lovely smirk. Upon turning, there was only hanging cloth. However, it was quiet behind the curtain otherwise, no vulgarity nor barbaric yells. Soothing. Amanya removed the glasses, taking long breaths of reassurance. Admiring the flask, her eyes glistened with both longing and understanding. She stepped onto the stage and there were no more lighthouses staring back…no applause. Only the dimmed stage. It was serene. No shadows. “Waiting on the weary shore,” she sang gloriously. Each note was punctual, heartfelt, genuine… She was flawless. Nothing else seemed to be present except for her voice and the background blues. Her heart poured its essence and naturally, she concluded with “Now he’s gone, but I’m not through”. Amanya left smiling to collect her things with thoughts of finality. No more bags and no more jewels. While walking past the curtain to exit through the front door, she saw Victor sitting in the back row. She approached him.

“I have an umbrella,” he said. She grinned, denying the gesture. 

“Ready to go?” she asked, extending her hand. “I think I finally am.”

Amanya and Victor walked out the door to flooded streets and cloudy skies. As the rain washed over them, the storm illuminating the sky, they danced. They danced as one.