Bronwyn Green

Prompt: S/he gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her/his hands.
“One last time,” s/he whispered to her/himself. “One. Last. Time.”

(I owe anyone who reads this an apology. I couldn’t think of anything until my husband made a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad suggestion. And of course, my brain decided to run with it. I’m so, so, SO sorry, you guys.)

Michael gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady his hands. “One last time,” he whispered to himself as he dipped his fingers into the thick, white goop. Cringing, he began to smear it over his face and neck, covering every inch of visible skin with a slick layer of greasepaint.

He would have rather have used white foundation, but the greasepaint had a particular scent. One that would hopefully linger, long after he’d finished the job. At least, his employer insisted that would be the case.

Next came the red and black paint. He applied it to his face, trying to make himself look as much like the faded, ragged polaroid as possible.

“More red.”

Michael stiffened and looked in the mirror, toward the corner where the voice had come from. It was too dark to see much, but he knew Bill was there. Bill was always fucking there.

“Got it, Boss,” he muttered, dipping his brush into the red paint pot and adding a wider layer around his mouth.

“Don’t forget to outline it. Looks creepier that way.”

Michael nodded that he’d heard, and continued applying the paint. When he was finished, he dragged the motheaten wig onto his head, tucking in any hair that peeked out. He adjusted the stained ruffle around his neck and pulled on the gloves that hadn’t been white in years.

He glanced at his reflection and then toward the darkened corner. “One. Last. Time,” he reminded himself and Bill. Turning toward his boss, he picked up the recently sharpened carving knife and walked toward the back of the room and his employer. “Tonight’s the last one, Boss. After this, I’m out.”

The dummy’s eyes glinted, and his mouth opened, the splintered wood clacking as its jaw moved. “Last one, Mikey. Now, get moving. The show must go on.”

This is more than enough from me this week. Please read Jess and Kris‘ stories to wash away this awfulness. And again, I apologize for the fucking clown and dummy. I deserve whatever nightmares I’m plagued with tonight…