Clown Paint

Valeria studies me for a long moment. The amusement never leaves her face. Around the salon, the other women settle comfortably into their chairs. Marina crosses one leg over the other and reaches for a glass of wine. Reina curls her tails around herself like a contented cat.

Even Nessa seems slightly more alert than usual. They all know something I don't. That alone is enough to make me nervous. Valeria glides toward a nearby table and begins gathering brushes, powders, and small jars of makeup.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles. "Preparing you."

I remain seated while she arranges her tools with almost ritual precision. The mirror reflects everything. My bald scalp gleams beneath the salon lights. My missing eyebrows leave my face looking strangely unfinished. Every time I catch sight of myself, I feel a fresh stab of humiliation.

Valeria notices. "Still mourning the hair?"

I glare at her. "Some of us get attached to parts of our body."

"That attitude is exactly why you chose the correct curse." The other women laugh. Valeria dips a sponge into a bowl of white makeup and steps behind my chair. A moment later, something cold touches my forehead. I flinch. "Oh, don't be dramatic," she says. "If I intended to hurt you, you would know."

The sponge glides across my skin, slowly and methodically. I watch through the mirror as the white pigment spreads across my forehead, then my cheeks, then my nose and chin. Little by little, my natural complexion disappears beneath a blank theatrical mask. The room grows quieter as the work continues. Even the other villains seem interested.

"There is something fascinating about this stage," Xiu Lian says. "The moment a person realizes they no longer control how others see them."

Valeria continues her work without rushing. By the time she finishes, my face is completely white. I stare at my reflection. I already look ridiculous. Valeria studies the result and nods approvingly. "Excellent. Now we can begin." My stomach sinks. She reaches for a smaller brush and dips it into crimson paint.

"No." The word escapes me immediately.

Valeria smiles. "Oh, yes."

She lifts my chin with one finger and begins painting. The brush moves carefully across my lips. Then beyond them. The red line extends farther and farther, curving upward at the corners until it becomes an exaggerated smile fixed permanently across my face.

The effect is grotesque. No matter how miserable I feel, the painted mouth appears delighted. The room erupts with laughter. Marina nearly chokes on her wine. Reina wipes tears from her eyes. Even Nessa smiles. I stare at the mirror and feel something twisting in my stomach. The smile doesn't belong to me.

Valeria steps back to examine her work. "Almost there." I close my eyes. That proves to be a mistake. "Open them." The command slides through me like a hook. My eyes open immediately. Valeria selects another brush. This one disappears into blue pigment.

The first stroke appears above my eye. Then another beneath it. The shapes grow larger as she works, forming exaggerated blue diamonds that stretch upward and downward like stylized tears. She repeats the process on the other eye.

My transformation becomes impossible to ignore. The woman in the mirror no longer looks like Jezebel James. She looks like a clown, a frightened and pathetic clown. I am a clown trying desperately not to cry.

"Oh, that's beautiful," Marina says.

Valeria laughs softly. "Beauty isn't the objective." She sets the brush aside. For a moment she simply studies me. Then she nods. "Perfect."

The room applauds. I have never wanted to punch so many people simultaneously. Unfortunately the curse has already demonstrated how well that works out for me. Valeria moves away from the chair and begins sorting through a rack of clothing standing against the wall.

At first I don't pay much attention. Then I see the colors. "No." My heart sinks. "I am not wearing that."

Valeria looks delighted. She pulls out a pair of stockings. One is covered in thick red-and-white stripes. The other is blue with oversized white polka dots. They do not match in any conceivable way. Valeria approaches me carrying the stockings.

The curse makes resistance largely symbolic. I try anyway. The effort lasts all of three seconds. By the time she's finished, one leg is wrapped in red-and-white stripes while the other looks like it escaped from an entirely different outfit. The effect is absurd.

Next comes a skirt constructed from alternating yellow and red diamonds. The pattern resembles a circus tent exploded and reassembled by someone with malicious intent. Valeria fastens it around my waist. Panties are not part of the costume, by shaved cunt bare beneath the skirt.

I look at the mirror, then immediately wish I hadn't. The suspenders come next, rainbow-striped, attached to enormous decorative buttons. By now the women are openly critiquing the ensemble.

"The suspenders are inspired."

"The skirt is doing a lot of heavy lifting."

"The shoes are going to bring everything together."

I don't like the fact that they sound genuinely invested. Then I see the shoes. They are bright yellow, absurdly oversized, and completely impossible to take seriously. Valeria slips them onto my feet. The final piece settles into place. Silence fills the salon. Valeria takes my arm and guides me toward the mirror. This time I don't bother to resist.

I stop in front of my reflection. For a long moment, nobody speaks. The clown staring back at me is impossible to ignore. Every single detail has been selected for one purpose, to make me look ridiculous. The women watch my reaction.

Valeria watches it most closely of all. Finally she steps beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. "The makeup isn't the curse. The costume isn't the curse either."

I keep staring at the mirror. "Then what is?"

The amusement fades from her expression. For the first time all evening, she seems entirely serious. "The curse begins when the crowd starts laugh at you." Valeria continues. "Everyone gets laughed at eventually, Jezebel. Everyone gets embarrassed. Everyone becomes the punchline at some point in their life."

I swallow. "What makes this different?"

Valeria's ruby eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Most people survive humiliation because they know it doesn't define them. The Curse of Pride changes that. Every laugh will feel more personal. Every insult will cut deeper. Every humiliation will linger longer than it should."

The clown in the mirror suddenly seems much less funny. Valeria's voice softens. "It becomes truly dangerous when you begin believing what the audience says about you." The room falls silent. I stare at my reflection, and for the first time since choosing the Pride card, I begin to understand why this lesson entertains the other villains as much as it frightens me.