Baked.

 

Baked.

The sun crackled, singeing her skin. She drank in the heat, letting it hit the depths of her lungs as it enveloped her, invading her body with its stifling smother. She opened one eye and saw her feathery lashes in the reflection of her sunglasses. They were curved, covered in a thick black mascara stain. She was batting them in vanity when she first noticed the lines. Little wrinkled trenches spanning away from those plumed hairs, gorging through the skin and reaching towards her eyebrows in a takeover of old age. Her designer lenses magnified them to horrific heights. Her years of sunshine allegiance, her practised pose of worship, her secret concoction of lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil, and all she was left with was something that resembled a desiccated baked potato.

36 Comments

  1. 9th October 2015 / 10:38 am

    Laura, I love this. It feels very familiar, in a way – to have the rug pulled from under you and realize that something you thought was great isn’t actually so great – and of course so bitter.

    I think I had a similar idea today – drafted mine before I ever read yours 🙂

    Here is my humble offering: https://tuckedintoacorner.wordpress.com/2015/10/09/unmasked/

    • 16th October 2015 / 1:30 pm

      It’s a horrid thought isn’t it? And well explored in your piece too. It’s a shame to put so much stock in our appearances, but we are a world that’s built on them!

  2. Donna-Louise Bishop
    14th October 2015 / 11:57 am

    An enjoyable read Laura – thanks for sharing.

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