Alex and the Cursed Eyeliner
"I have wept in cathedrals and cursed at chandeliers, but nothing burns like waterproof eyeliner that remembers my sins."
Alexandre Delacroix, Marquis of Midnight Regret™, stood before the cracked mirror of the ruined abbey, his reflection absent, but his hair immaculate. The eyeliner? Flawless. Eternal. Cursed by a fae makeup artist in 1723 after an incident involving a love triangle, a swan, and a misunderstood prophecy.
Every night, the liner returned, perfect wing, precise waterline. And every morning, the tear he shed for a lost lover named Mistral shimmered down a porcelain cheek, black as spilled ink and ten times more permanent.
Outside, a thunderstorm practiced its scales.
Inside, Alex brooded over a goblet of absinthe, garnished with a single black rose petal and a hint of dramatic flair. The candles dimmed of their own volition (out of respect), and a single violin in the corner whispered "lonelyyyyyyy..."
He sighed.
“I would trade my soul for one morning without the smoky eye,” he whispered to no one, then paused. “...Again.”
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Cloaked, ethereal, and humming something suspiciously like “Toxic” by Britney Spears. It was Mistral. Back from the Otherworld. With a suitcase. And glitter on his shoulders.
“I told you,” Mistral said, brushing back silver curls, “you’re not cursed. You’re just extra.”
The eyeliner shimmered approvingly. Somewhere, a chandelier collapsed.
Alexandre Delacroix, Marquis of Midnight Regret™, stood before the cracked mirror of the ruined abbey, his reflection absent, but his hair immaculate. The eyeliner? Flawless. Eternal. Cursed by a fae makeup artist in 1723 after an incident involving a love triangle, a swan, and a misunderstood prophecy.
Every night, the liner returned, perfect wing, precise waterline. And every morning, the tear he shed for a lost lover named Mistral shimmered down a porcelain cheek, black as spilled ink and ten times more permanent.
Outside, a thunderstorm practiced its scales.
Inside, Alex brooded over a goblet of absinthe, garnished with a single black rose petal and a hint of dramatic flair. The candles dimmed of their own volition (out of respect), and a single violin in the corner whispered "lonelyyyyyyy..."
He sighed.
“I would trade my soul for one morning without the smoky eye,” he whispered to no one, then paused. “...Again.”
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Cloaked, ethereal, and humming something suspiciously like “Toxic” by Britney Spears. It was Mistral. Back from the Otherworld. With a suitcase. And glitter on his shoulders.
“I told you,” Mistral said, brushing back silver curls, “you’re not cursed. You’re just extra.”
The eyeliner shimmered approvingly. Somewhere, a chandelier collapsed.
