Page 153 of Irreversible

He’s all hard edges but with a vulnerable heart.

With each sweep of eyeliner, I reveal the web that binds the city’s underbelly. The tension rises as my protagonist peels back layers of corruption. As I apply a shade of deep-berry lipstick, the man confronts the mastermind behind it all—a cunning, eccentric manipulator whose motives remain shrouded until the final act. The room crackles with an air of suspense as my surly hero faces a choice that will determine the fate of the city and his own redemption.

In this moment, our friendship blossoms. My heart comes alive, pumping with remnants of a girl I used to know. Of a girl I miss, desperately.

As Queenie watches me transform, I know that our bond is more than just lipstick and imagination. She’s my anchor, letting me believe for just a few minutes that I have exciting and interesting things to share.

And I suppose grief is interesting.

Heartbreak is full of fascinating complexities.

But I try to shove my real-world baggage aside as I step into my alter ego named “Bee” and pretend to be somebody else.

I hope it will last.

The guilt I carry is powerful and all-consuming. Sometimes it feels like a deadly infection with no cure, only growing more terminal with each passing day.

It starts as a painful ache in my chest, something like a tickle. A warning spasm. Then it spreads to my bloodstream and blackens my vital organs. Before I know it, it’ll travel to my heart, and once it reaches my heart, I’m a goner. It’ll only be a matter of time before I’m shriveled up on the cold ground, that once-flourishing heart dead and lifeless.

I close my eyes and swallow down the feeling.

I can’t let that happen.

“I liked that story.” Queenie is newly adorned in a chestnut wig with spiral curls and honeyed highlights. “I think it’s my favorite one yet.”

A genuine smile blooms on my lips, only to fade the moment I stand from the stool and glance at the wall clock.

It’s showtime.

And that’s the damnedest thing about guilt. It infects everything within reach, anything it can sink its teeth into. Even a tiny, innocent smile.

Even a fairy tale.

October used to be my favorite month, but now it’s just dead leaves, gray skies, and apple cider donuts that taste like dirt. It’s that time of year when my ghosts come out to play, dancing in a graveyard of grief while I howl at the moon.

I want to crawl back into my coffin until November.

But I worry it’ll just be another October.

The lights are blazing, causing my skin to dampen with sweat as I stare out at the crowd. My heart rate doubles as a jackhammer, pounding relentlessly in my chest.

This is a mistake.

I’m not cut out for this.

The music starts, and I’m a deer in headlights, frozen to the stage as my hand curls around the pole. Patrons whoop and holler, fists pumping in the air, strobes blinding me and making me dizzy.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to be sick.

Dollar bills flutter at my stilettoed feet. Piles of them. I force a timid smile and aim it at a middle-aged man with one of those handlebar mustaches who just tossed me a one-hundred-dollar bill.

Can they see me shaking?

Are they privy to the terror in my eyes?

I’m used to men gawking and drooling as they watch me pose and bat my lashes, but this is different. This is taking it to a new level—one I was undoubtedly not prepared for. I try to remember my practice runs, though they did little to quell my anxiety.

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