CC’S P.O.V

"You can't be serious sir" I plead

"Dead serious"

Sighing, I realise there is no point in arguing.

"I'll go pack my bags"

"Be out of here by the morning or else I charge two hundred dollars every extra day you stay"

Shit.

I guess I have no choice.

-

I open the door, quite difficultly because I'm holding two suitcases and I have a heavy AS FUCK backpack chilling on my back. Looking up at the crappy apartment complex, I feel a little sad. Even though it wasn't remotely close to civilisation, it still was home.

I chuck my keys on the front desk behind me and close the front door for the very last time

**********

I have 900 dollars that I scraped together before my departure, that should get me some basic food stuff and a hotel for the night, and then I need to do something serious with this situation.

I walk at least six blocks before i come across a decent looking hotel. I check into the 'Macintosh Hotel' for a night, and walk up to my room

What the hell am I going to do with myself?

I have next to no money
No stable home
No means a transport let alone a car
And literally nowhere to stay tomorrow night unless I want to be broke for a week.

Shit shit shit shit SHIT!

-

I pull a box out of my backpack. It’s full of war paint, eyeliner, black lipstick and makeup tools. I move over to my mirror. I take a sponge and white war paint and cover my face with the stuff. Next I grab some eyeliner I line my eyes. And for the last step, I use my black war paint. I draw circles around my eyes and then, on the corner of my eye closest to my ear, I paint on a curvy line coming down that thins out and stops just below my mouth. Next to my nose, I draw the same shape.

I step back from the mirror and walk back over to my wardrobe; I take out some leather pants and a plain black t-shirt. I take off my pyjamas and replace them with the clothes I just got out.

I root around for my studded belt and add it to the outfit. And to complete it, I grab my black war paint yet again and cover myself with it, smearing it all over my arms.

I look back at myself in the mirror; having done it one million times when I was alone it never really surprised me how different I looked from my usual self. But this time, I felt extremely different.

On any other day with my war paint on I would have looked in the mirror and seen a boy who looked like he fought a losing battle with a bottle of ink, but now, I looked like I had symmetrical tattoos done by a professional.

I looked powerful.

I felt a bit better

Notes

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~e.t.