The morning after it happened, Kama looked at herself in the mirror and decided she couldn’t possibly look worse under any circumstances. Her eyes, nothing but bloodshot orbs, hid behind lids all puffy from crying. Her skin, normally smooth and creamy, looked blotchy and even greasy. That never happened. She always took good care of her skin in particular, because she loved its clear beauty, the even skin tone and lack of blemishes. . . Not that she had any reason to do so now, of course.
Her hair also failed inspection. Ratty, greasy, tangled. . . In short, she looked like she’d been up most of the night crying.
How appropriate. Because, of course, she’d done exactly that, cried most of the night as though her heart would never mend.
Mechanically, Kama picked up her hairbrush, a silver-backed one she’d spent nearly a week’s income on, and began working out the knots in her hair. Lorrine used to do that for her. The long, heavy mass was a bit much for one person to take care of. Maybe she’d better cut it right now, before the memory of feeling Lorrine’s gentle hands brushing out her braid at the end of the day made her cry again.
Too late. The tears came, just a few of them, prickling and stinging horribly as they worked their way out of sore eyes and down raw cheeks.
"Oh, Lorra, why? What happened?"
Her marred reflection stared back at her, expressionless, accusing. You know why.
"But you’re the one that started it!"
If only she could forget the feeling of Lorra in her arms, the softness of her lips, the tenderness of. . .
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