ROUGE

Content Warning / Trigger Warning: Death, self-harm, suicide.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction and characters/their arcs are not drawn from real life.

***

“I wonder what it would be like for rouge to be made from powdered blood. Is that a thing? Powdered blood? If something like that did exist, I can finally use the ‘blood rushed to my face’ phrase earnestly. What do you think?” I turn to look at Aaliyah. We are lying next to each other on her bed, our legs leaning against the wall and our gaze fixed at the unmoving ceiling fan. She does not say anything, just continues to stare upwards, her mouth slightly agape. I frown, feeling a little disappointed at her lack of reaction. Wiggling my toes, I continue, “My feet are in desperate need of a pedicure. Wearing those cheap, knock-off stilettoes has almost bent them out of shape. Look at how damaged my nails look. I wish my manager didn’t force us lowly accountants to dress up. It’s not like they pay us enough to afford anything decent.” Still no response. I slip my hand into hers, shuddering at how cold it feels and give it a little squeeze. She doesn’t squeeze it back. “I am glad you quit your job at the call center. Those night shifts and illegally long hours were taking a toll on you. Aren’t you so much better now?” Silence. I close my eyes and sketch her face out from all the memories I hold of her. A small smile plays on her lips and her eyes ember with a once-in-a-lifetime sort of content. There is comfort in the familiarity of her face, a sort of safety that doesn’t often grace our lives.

*

Aaliyah had been hanging from the ceiling fan in her room when I discovered her, five days ago. I had just come back from work after a mind-numbing day of staring at numbers and wandered into her room without knocking, as I always do. There were no screams uttered, nor neighbours called upon for help. I had just felt myself collapse to the floor, unable to peel my eyes away from her. It was hours later, when the more immediate shock of it had somewhat dissipated that I dared to approach her. My hands quivered a little as I grabbed her wrist, which was freezing to touch. I checked for a pulse, not really processing that there was unlikely to be one. I got up on the bed and took off the make-shift noose from her neck. It was a red dupatta, from one of her fancy suits that collected dust in her wardrobe from disuse. Trying not to hurt her further, I lowered her body gently onto the mattress and settled myself down next to her. There was a thick bruise along the circumference of her neck. I ran my index finger across it, flinching, as though she could still feel the pain.

I half-carried, half-dragged her to our shared bathroom, thankful to the gym class I was forced to take in high school and ran a warm bath for her. She needed to be bathed and dressed in clean clothes, separated from the nightgown that smelled uncharacteristically musty, and there was no one else to do it. Not that I would let anyone else touch her. I took my time, scrubbing every inch of her body with care, especially her hair, which was the only part of her she spared any praise for. She has two birthmarks on her body, a mole on her chin and a reddish-brown stain above her belly button. When we were little, we gave them names. The mole, Urad, was named after the lentils our orphanage aunty cooked for us. Perhaps being a little less creative, we called the stain Rang, for its bright and colourful appearance against her pale skin. A yearly ritual had been dedicated to measuring each birthmark to check if it had grown any bigger. As I rinsed away the soap off Rang, I placed my thumb along its length and nodded. It was still the same size as it was when we last measured it, at eighteen. Having washed her torso and legs, I moved to her face, staring at it for a good minute before applying face wash on it. Aaliyah had always been self-conscious of her facial features. She had high cheekbones, which she thought made her look gaunt and unattractive. I only ever saw beauty in everything she did and was, but she called me biased. It was difficult to make sure that none of the soap went inside her eyes, even though they were closed shut. I did not want to cause her any more agony. Once the bath was over, I drained the tub of water and patted her dry with a towel, before wrapping her in a robe. Her sheets had to be changed before I could take her back. After everything, she deserved freshly washed sheets. The new bed sheet was dotted with pink and yellow tulips. We had bought it at the flea market a few months ago. She had loved how soft it felt and how it would light up her otherwise dull room, with its grey walls. Laying her gently on the bed of flowers, I walked to her closet and picked her coziest outfit – a pair of black joggers and white t-shirt. I hate clothes that cling to my skin, she had often remarked when we went clothes shopping. Dressing her was harder than I thought it would be. Her body resisted my efforts, and I was worried that if I gave up, I would never be able to go back to it.

Huffing and puffing, I sat down beside her lying body and checked my watch, which I had not bothered or remembered to take off. It was 10 PM. Almost time for her shift. I looked around the room, in search of her phone. It was next to the lamp on her bedside table. We never actually shared the pins to each other’s phones, but I knew hers, it was her birthday. I pulled up her email account and checked if she had sent anything to her boss. There it was, at the top of the sent folder, titled Letter of Resignation. I wasn’t surprised that she sent it, she was the sort of person who hated to inconvenience anyone. Shaking my head at the polite tone of the email, I wondered if her awful boss would even give it a second glance. He never deserved her. Dropping the phone back on the bed, I stood up and stretched my feet. My stomach grumbled loudly enough to be heard. When did I last eat? I turned to look at Aaliyah and said, “Give me 15 minutes, I’ll make us sandwiches and coffee. I bet you are hungry after that bath.” 

As I walked to the kitchen, it hit me that I had completely forgotten to buy the groceries for the week. Cursing under my breath, I opened the refrigerator expecting to see a sad, half-eaten cucumber and sucked in my breath. Since the day we moved in, I had never seen the fridge this full. The door was lined with two packs of semi-toned milk, which only I drank, because Aaliyah was lactose-intolerant, a pack of Greek yogurt which we often used to make bread, 12 eggs, a fresh bottle of mayonnaise, and a bottle full of garlic-honey salad dressing that Aaliyah had invented after downing three cans of an energy drink. In the first shelf, there was a pack of chicken sausages from Halalzz, two salami packs and a box of firm tofu which I always used for my stir-fry. Butter croissants from the bakery down the road, pita bread, and tortilla wraps were stuffed in the second shelf. The vegetable tray had an assortment of seven different items, even avocadoes which we usually couldn’t afford. There was a box of Aaliyah’s famous cucumber salad, which I kept telling her she should sell. In the freezer, there were cubes of chopped up garlic and ginger, three packs of frozen fried food, and cookie dough.

For a moment, I just stared at all the food and with shaking hands, closed the door, only to see a note I had missed before – ‘Don’t forget to eat, Zoya.’ There was a drop in my chest and before I knew it, I had the pack of avocadoes in my hand. I picked one and kept hurling it on the floor until it completely smashed against the ground, splattering the tiles green. Grabbing the Greek yogurt, I walked over to the sink and emptied it, running the tap and breathing heavily as I watched it swirl down the drain. Minutes later, I had the crate of eggs in my hand, and one by one, I threw them at the wall above the stove, the yolk running down the sides of the concrete slab. When I ran out of eggs, I took the honey-garlic dressing and let it drop right between my feet. It shattered and the sound vibrated through my entire body. This is where my memory begins to fade a little. I remember walking back to Aaliyah’s room, small shards of glass sticking out of my bare feet. I could not feel the pain. The only thing I felt was guilt at destroying the food she prepared for me and making a mess in our kitchen. My stomach felt hollow. I slipped into bed with her, hugging her tightly, and whispered, ‘I am sorry. I will clean tomorrow and buy you fresh avocadoes from the mall. Don’t step into the kitchen before that. You will hurt yourself.” Her bedspread was stained with my blood, leaving a permanent mark of the way I repaid her thoughtfulness. I drifted off and wished I did not have to wake up.

 *

For the past five days, since I discovered her in her room, I have been caring for my best friend. I wake up, make the bed, wipe her body down with a sponge, and apply light make-up to her face. I make breakfast two, food that she does not touch, and I cannot keep down. A pungent odour has started seeping into the walls of the house, so I blast the air conditioner and spray the room freshener at regular intervals. This feels like the appropriate reaction, and nothing more permanent feels required. I did not go to work for the first two days, under the pretense of sudden illness (which wasn't entirely untrue), but eventually I had to, when my manager's threats to fire me became serious. The second I get back though , I run to her room, scared that someone would have taken her from me. The first Thursday after the 'incident', I made us stir-fried noodles and chocolate-chip cookies, our special we-are-not-actually-poor meal of the week. She still does not touch her food, so I freeze her portions for when she is ready to eat. We end every night with a little heart-to-heart session, where I pour myself out and she listens, as she always has. Today, we have our legs against the wall and our eyes fixed at the ceiling. I removed the dupatta from the fan so that she does not get perturbed at the sight of it. After my little rant about needing a pampering session at the salon, I decide that we should sleep. I turn her back to a sleeping position and take a cloth to wipe her forehead and neck, leaving the rouge be. It is a convincing lie, a haunting illusion, with my sanity held together by the colour in her face.

***