Berlin's Fortress

Chapter One

Word Count: 1,500

Berlin

The sudden outbreak of a foul smell drifts under my nose, sending me and my client into fits of dry heaves. My nostrils sting, and I find myself involuntarily flicking my hand in front of my nose. 

"God!" my client squeals, making a gagging sound. I watch in horror as she wrinkles her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. The obnoxious smell clearly too much for her. 

I immediately jump to defence, worried that the still wet mascara might smudge over, "Open your eyes, please,"

She shakes her head furiously, as if the smell in the air is poison and she's afraid she might get afflicted. She's right, I figure I'm unable to swallow past the tanginess in my mouth. 

The whole saloon erupts with screamed 'Ewww's, urgent tatters, hand fanning's and gags. A bomb of mayhem goes off and the once busy yet unflustered saloon turns into a pandemonium. As disturbing as the smell is, I don't find it in me to abandon my work.

My client goes as far as pulling the collar of her shirt up to cover her nose, in attempts to ward off the merciless odour.

Not the concealer, no. I groan, "Noooo,"

"I can't, I'm sorry" She says, continuing to shake her head, face now masked behind the collar of her shirt.

I almost cry at the sight, worried that the loose powder still baking on her highlighted areas might smear. I go to pry the collar away but she shakes her head vigorously, eyes still squeezed shut. There goes the perfect eyeliner and mascara.

My hands frustratedly rest on my hips as I stand upright, "Can you at least open your eyes?"

She slowly opens her eyes. Thankfully, no traces of smudged mascara can be seen.

The foul smell finally registers and I almost gag, unable to swallow past the smell. I pull my own collar over my nose and raise my blending brush to blend the thin layer of concealer underlining her eyebrows. 

"Berlin!"

My head whips to the side at the sound of July, a fellow staff member and a close friend of mine.  She's standing by the hallway just beyond the curtain of beads hanging from the archway, looking as if she's trying her best to keep her breakfast down.

With a sympathetic look on her eyes, she motions me over, "You might wanna come and see this,"

My heart goes into gear as I gently place the blending brush and the palette in my hand on the vanity, rounding the client's high metal chair and following July as she walks back from where she emerged seconds ago, turning right and leading us into the staff's private wing.

The clicks from my heels come to a stop, and I'm suddenly frozen to the spot, blanched. The feeling of a bucket of ice water poured over my head makes my heart stop.

I don't think my whole life was enough to teach me the true meaning of mortification. Until now. Right there, near the elegant light blue settee pressed against the wall, stands my mother.

My eyes rake down her form to stop and widen at her shoulder length wide legs. Her skirt has ridden up a few inches to reveal the light brown trail streaking down her legs, forming a puddle at her feet.

The puddle that is responsible for the venomous smell that's wafting through every corner of the room, poisoning the freshness of the saloon's atmosphere in its wake.

July, who chose to stand by my side, leans into me to whisper, "The toilet stalls were all busy, and she might've eaten more candy than she should, so..."