Wrap Me In Plastic And Make Me Shine Novels & Stories

I tried to persuade her. Shani smiles and gives in. She started to dance and sing the lyrics to the song. Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls Your back against the world I never trade you for anybody else, say Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls The best thing inna di world I never trade you for anybody else, say We danced and singed along to the song until it was over. Then we hugged it out. “So how does my makeup look?” I ask the both of them.

I secretly swallowed because of the view. They were still shouting. I breathed deeply before starting to shake my body. "Shit! We missed you, Magda!!!" "You're mine now! I'll pay a lot!" "My f*cking hormones, sh*t! Shake it off Magda!" I could see in their eyes the admiration for my inherent beauty and charm. I felt like I'm a famous television actress that everyone is obsessed with, like pizza that will never be rejected when laid on the table, like wine and beers that can almost replace the water if swallowed, like a bad drug that when once you use, you will never stop using it and like a potion that once you have been subjected under its magic, you will never be able to escape anymore.

The crystal melted in his palm. “What are you—” “Camouflage,” he said. “Until we know what’s going on with the marks, probably best you don’t glow like a holy relic in public.” The crystal pulsed, and then he pressed it lightly against my marked hand. I expected it to be hot, but it wasn't. The glowing crescent faded from view, hidden beneath a shimmer of illusion. But in its place, a delicate silver ring appeared around my finger, it looked delicate, the threads of silver were so fine I thought they might snap.

A single tear welled and traced a path through the blue paint on her cheek. “Ah,” he murmured, catching the tear with his thumb before it could fall. “Even the salt must be sealed.” He brushed a tiny spot of varnish over the damp trail, laminating her grief to her cheek. He worked his way around her back, varnishing every inch. When he finished, she was entirely encased in a layer of hard, shiny plastic. She glistened under the studio lights like a pagan idol, a grotesque, beautiful artifact of obsession. She could not sit. She could barely move without feeling the tight, glossy shell constrict.

I wasn’t sure if I was putting on the mask… or hiding behind it. I reapplied my makeup slowly, deliberately. Black eyeliner, smoky eye shadow, Highlighter on my cheekbones and Deep cherry lips. Then the glitter, God, the glitter. I hated it but I needed it. Needed to shine even when I was drowning. I pressed the fine dust onto my collarbones, shoulders, thighs feeling that familiar sting of fake confidence rising with every shimmer. A performer again, Stronger again, Untouchable even if inside, something felt… wrong, so tight... so uneasy.

facade dies. I shed the modesty like a second skin, peeling off the layers of boredom until I’m standing there in nothing but a pair of sheer stockings and a lace mask that covers the upper half of my face. Under the glow of the LEDs, I transform into “That Caramel Girl.”I didn’t start this because I was desperate for the money... though, let’s be honest, the tuition for my degree is a fucking nightmare.

The whole game would end, and everything would be ruined. I quickly reached into my small purse and pulled out my makeup stick. With fast, heavy strokes, I dabbed the thick cream over the bruise. I rubbed it in with my fingertips until the dark mark was completely hidden under a smooth layer of fake skin. I fixed my hair, pulling a few loose strands down to cover the side of my neck just to be completely safe. I smoothed down my dress, took three deep breaths, and unlocked the heavy bathroom door.

It was brighter and warmer, like something waking up. I reached for the ceramic jar hidden behind my perfume bottles. Moonshade. The paste was thick and gray, smelling of bitter herbs and ash. Stay small, stay silent, stay alive. I scooped out more than usual. The mark was glowing brighter these days. I spread the paste over my chest and winced at the sting. The glow dimmed beneath the gray coating until it was almost invisible. I stared at the faint shimmer still visible if you knew where to look. I would need to be careful today.

a voice buzzes in my ear. I drop my arm, hide the tattoo under the cuff of my glittering jacket, and step into the light. Sicily erupts. “LUNA! LUNA! LUNA!” Fifty thousand people chant my name as the opening notes of "Bleed for Me" thunder through the stadium. The LED wall behind me explodes with fire and smoke effects. I stalk to center stage in thigh‑high boots and a bodysuit made of more sequins than fabric, hair loose, eyeliner sharp enough to pierce skin.

Zara bent down, her hair falling forward as she whispered, “Remember, we’re using the wig to keep you hidden, just in case someone recognizes you. Don’t draw too much attention, alright?” I nodded, understanding the importance of blending in. The makeup artist started fixing me up, placing a shiny blue wig on my head. I was shocked by how cool it looked! “Wow, this is amazing!” I said, touching the wig. “I look like a superhero!” The artist grinned at me. “Exactly! You’ll be the talk of the set today!” ---