She stared into the mirror, examining her face. She stroked her fingers over her nose and cheeks, feeling for bumps, pre-spots, anything that shouldn’t be there. The enlarged pores full of dirt and grime. She could see the muck that stretched them open. She squeezed her skin between her two forefingers, holding her breathe as she pushed the pile of pus out of the pore. She felt the skin ‘pop’ as the curd of the pus lead the worm of muck out. She continues picking at her skin, squeezing it until it no longer offers anything but blood.
She looks at her watch, the pink Swarovski crystals enveloping the dial tells her she has been there for three solid hours. She feels drained, as if the excess oil she expelled is pure energy. Snapping herself back to the here and now, she splashes cold water on to her face, refusing to look back in to the mirror again, fearing her may drag her back in.
She pats her face dry on the luxurious 100% Egyptian cotton towels, the soft pile still felt rough on her battered skin.
She walks into her bedroom, through the stark white painted hall, lined with gilt framed movie posters. Her face, her body, constantly on show. She reaches her bedroom and slams the door, blocking those thoughts.