Read Online Hold Me Never (Holding Never) by Natalie Kristen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Natalie Kristen
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on me
at the bottom of the stairs. I lose my balance and lurch forward,
straight into the arms of a thin, extraordinarily dressed woman with
so much makeup caked on her face I can hardly make out her real
features.
She pinches my shoulder between two fingers and peels me
off her, like she's peeling some piece of garbage off her bony arm.
Wrinkling her nose in disapproval, she looks me up and down with
narrowed, mismatched eyes. I stare from one purple eye to the other
orange eye. Those can't be real, can they? There is a delicate,
curling pattern radiating from her pupils to the corners of her large
irises. As she eyeballs me, those curling, rainbow-colored lines
seem to swirl and spin. It is impossible to look into her eyes and
not feel giddy. It is like being sucked into a whirlpool, dangerous
and hypnotic.
I blink quickly and tear my eyes away from hers, forcing
myself to focus on some other part of her face. Her thin eyebrows
are drawn in a fine arc over her eyes. I move past her stiff fake
eyelashes which fan out from her eyes like the legs of a dead insect
to the two blotches of startling bright pink on the apples of her
cheeks. Her plump lips are painted a shiny, sunny yellow. Flaming
red and orange hair is stacked high on her head, and heavily adorned
with glittering pins and bows.
“ You are Zoey, yes?” she drawls.
I nod.
“ I'm Mam Mallisa, and I am the Chief Groomer in
the Palace.” She waves a painted claw in the air and huffs,
“You are late. There is a lot of work to be done, on you—and
not enough time to do it. Let's go.” She saunters off and
looks over her shoulder. “Come along now. Follow me.”
Stumbling through a wide, stone doorway, my apprehension
is momentarily displaced by amazement. I gawk at the huge, brightly
lit room that I am entering. Now I know why I smelled soap and
perfume. This place looks like a beauty parlor, of sorts.
The guards mentioned the Grooming Room. This—must
be it.
But as I stagger deeper into the Grooming Room, I am
reminded of the factory where I worked in wary silence with all those
women. The Grooming Room is likewise filled with women, all silent,
with heads bent.
I'd thought that grooming involved making someone
beautiful and comfortable. Pampering, powdering, pandering. I'd
always thought that it would be a privilege and a luxury to be
groomed.
I am wrong.
The Grooming Room is more a factory than a beauty
parlor.
Here, grooming is a cold, systematic, mechanical
conveyor-belt process.
Scattered around the room are about twenty or so young
women being “groomed”. They are completely naked, and
are standing stiffly on small platforms, expressionless. There is no
pampering and pandering at all. These naked young women are being
worked on as if they're products. They are being stripped, waxed,
plucked, oiled, polished and painted, painstakingly processed into a
finished product.
I stare at the naked women on the platforms and the
women in dull, gray uniforms who are doing all the work around the
Room. The gray-uniformed women work quietly, washing and grooming
the naked girls, as well as cleaning, scrubbing, sweeping, mopping
and tidying up the entire Room.
My eyes start to water from the steam and perfumed mist.
Staring but not seeing, I bump into a petite gray uniform, and the
pile of towels in her arms tumble to the floor. “I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry...” I sputter, stooping down quickly to help her.
“ It's okay,” she answers softly, without
looking up at me.
She gathers up the towels hurriedly and reach for the
towels that I have haphazardly bunched up in my arms.
“ Oh, here, I...” I push the towels out to
her and gasp.
She has only three fingers on her hand.
What should have been her last two fingers are just two
bandaged stumps.
Stunned, I stand up slowly and shakily as she backs away
from me. I turn around in a circle, my eyes suddenly seeing clearly
through the mist. All the uniformed women are maimed and scarred.
Some are
at the bottom of the stairs. I lose my balance and lurch forward,
straight into the arms of a thin, extraordinarily dressed woman with
so much makeup caked on her face I can hardly make out her real
features.
She pinches my shoulder between two fingers and peels me
off her, like she's peeling some piece of garbage off her bony arm.
Wrinkling her nose in disapproval, she looks me up and down with
narrowed, mismatched eyes. I stare from one purple eye to the other
orange eye. Those can't be real, can they? There is a delicate,
curling pattern radiating from her pupils to the corners of her large
irises. As she eyeballs me, those curling, rainbow-colored lines
seem to swirl and spin. It is impossible to look into her eyes and
not feel giddy. It is like being sucked into a whirlpool, dangerous
and hypnotic.
I blink quickly and tear my eyes away from hers, forcing
myself to focus on some other part of her face. Her thin eyebrows
are drawn in a fine arc over her eyes. I move past her stiff fake
eyelashes which fan out from her eyes like the legs of a dead insect
to the two blotches of startling bright pink on the apples of her
cheeks. Her plump lips are painted a shiny, sunny yellow. Flaming
red and orange hair is stacked high on her head, and heavily adorned
with glittering pins and bows.
“ You are Zoey, yes?” she drawls.
I nod.
“ I'm Mam Mallisa, and I am the Chief Groomer in
the Palace.” She waves a painted claw in the air and huffs,
“You are late. There is a lot of work to be done, on you—and
not enough time to do it. Let's go.” She saunters off and
looks over her shoulder. “Come along now. Follow me.”
Stumbling through a wide, stone doorway, my apprehension
is momentarily displaced by amazement. I gawk at the huge, brightly
lit room that I am entering. Now I know why I smelled soap and
perfume. This place looks like a beauty parlor, of sorts.
The guards mentioned the Grooming Room. This—must
be it.
But as I stagger deeper into the Grooming Room, I am
reminded of the factory where I worked in wary silence with all those
women. The Grooming Room is likewise filled with women, all silent,
with heads bent.
I'd thought that grooming involved making someone
beautiful and comfortable. Pampering, powdering, pandering. I'd
always thought that it would be a privilege and a luxury to be
groomed.
I am wrong.
The Grooming Room is more a factory than a beauty
parlor.
Here, grooming is a cold, systematic, mechanical
conveyor-belt process.
Scattered around the room are about twenty or so young
women being “groomed”. They are completely naked, and
are standing stiffly on small platforms, expressionless. There is no
pampering and pandering at all. These naked young women are being
worked on as if they're products. They are being stripped, waxed,
plucked, oiled, polished and painted, painstakingly processed into a
finished product.
I stare at the naked women on the platforms and the
women in dull, gray uniforms who are doing all the work around the
Room. The gray-uniformed women work quietly, washing and grooming
the naked girls, as well as cleaning, scrubbing, sweeping, mopping
and tidying up the entire Room.
My eyes start to water from the steam and perfumed mist.
Staring but not seeing, I bump into a petite gray uniform, and the
pile of towels in her arms tumble to the floor. “I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry...” I sputter, stooping down quickly to help her.
“ It's okay,” she answers softly, without
looking up at me.
She gathers up the towels hurriedly and reach for the
towels that I have haphazardly bunched up in my arms.
“ Oh, here, I...” I push the towels out to
her and gasp.
She has only three fingers on her hand.
What should have been her last two fingers are just two
bandaged stumps.
Stunned, I stand up slowly and shakily as she backs away
from me. I turn around in a circle, my eyes suddenly seeing clearly
through the mist. All the uniformed women are maimed and scarred.
Some are
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