My Scarred, Secret Love

The makeup trailer reeked of cheap latex. I wore a mask, carefully applying blood onto the actor's face with trembling hands.

"Scarlett, hurry up! Time is money!" The director's roar echoed from outside, thick with anxiety.

My brush trembled slightly. Another production on the verge of bankruptcy. The third one this month.

"Sorry, almost done," I whispered back, focusing on the zombie makeup. Every stroke had to be perfect—retakes meant more material costs, which this struggling indie horror film couldn't afford.

The actor sat with his eyes closed, letting me paint his face. The rickety chair creaked beneath him, and the overhead fluorescent lights flickered intermittently. Everything here reminded me of how pathetic my life had become.

How much can I make this month? I mentally calculated my meager income. After rent, utilities, car insurance... what was left couldn't even buy a decent makeup kit.

The director's complaints drifted in again: "The budget is just too tight. If the investors don't come through, we might have to shut down production."

My hand paused for a second. Shutting down meant no income, and no income meant... I didn't dare think further.

But I had no right to be picky. This was reality.

At 25, I was a freelance special effects makeup artist, forever relegated to the most marginal projects, forever scraping by in the most run-down film sets.

"Done." I stepped back to examine my work. The actor opened his eyes and nodded at his reflection. At least technically, I never disappointed.

"You can wait in the break room. We'll start shooting soon." I gathered my tools as the actor left.

The trailer fell silent. I stripped off my gloves and slumped back in the chair, exhausted. Outside, crew members chatted and smoked—no one invited me to join. Just as well; I'd never been good at socializing.

The break room was empty except for me. A worn-out couch, a few wobbly chairs, and outdated magazines scattered on the table.

I picked up a copy of Vogue to kill time. The cover featured some supermodel's perfect face, so flawless it barely looked human. I flipped through pages of luxury ads and unattainable fashion content.

Then I saw that name.

Liam Parker.

My heart skipped a beat.

[Beauty Through the Lens—An Interview with Rising Photography Star Liam Parker]

I held my breath, carefully turning to the feature as if afraid to disturb something precious.

Pages and pages about him. International renowned photographer, work spanning Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, clients including Chanel and Dior. Photos showed his glass studio perched on Malibu cliffs, surrounded by ocean on three sides—luxurious like an art palace.

Seven years. He'd become so brilliant.

And I was still here in this decrepit film set, worrying about a few hundred dollars.

The distance between us kept growing.

Then I saw that quote:

[The most beautiful faces aren't about perfection, but about the light of the soul shining through one's eyes. A girl taught me that. She showed me that true beauty hides in the most unexpected places.]

My hands began to shake.

A girl.

Could it be me?

No, impossible. With his status now, he must be surrounded by beautiful women. Maybe some flawless model, maybe some elegant artist...

But I couldn't help remembering that afternoon eight years ago.

Senior year, after school in an empty classroom. I was alone practicing sketches when I heard footsteps.

"Not going home yet?"

I looked up—it was Liam. Sunset streamed through the window, casting warm light across his face.

"Just finishing up." I hurriedly packed my art supplies, accidentally knocking over my water cup.

He came over to help clean up, then suddenly stopped.

"Is this... me?"

I'd drawn his profile from when he was concentrating in class. Caught red-handed, I wanted to crawl into a hole.

"Sorry, I..."

"It's really good." He picked up the drawing, studying it seriously. "You have very special eyes—you can see beauty that others miss."

That moment, I was completely lost. No, maybe it started even earlier.

But I never told him. How could I dare?

Now he was an internationally acclaimed photographer, and I was still that timid girl with scars all over her face.

A girl taught me that.

I read that line over and over, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. The girl he mentioned... could it be me?

Or was I just being delusional? Eight years was enough time to forget many things, including a scarred girl.

I kept reading. The interviewer asked: "Can you tell us more about that girl?"

Liam's response: "She's my eternal creative inspiration. But her story should be told by herself."

Tears nearly spilled from my eyes.

After all these years, did he still remember me?

I looked again at the photos of his studio in the magazine, then at my current surroundings.

He was photographing A-list celebrities on Malibu cliffs while I painted scars on third-rate actors in run-down sets. He lived in mansions and drove luxury cars while I rented a tiny apartment in East LA and drove a barely-functioning used car.

With his current status, how could he possibly still remember the poor little girl from downstairs?

I smiled bitterly, touching the scar on my face. Even if he truly remembered me, it would only be out of pity. Now he worked with perfect goddesses like those on magazine covers. And me...

I closed the magazine and walked to the break room mirror. Removing my mask, I stared at my reflection. The scar was still clearly visible, stretching from my temple to my cheek.

Eighteen years. This scar had been with me for eighteen years.

The memory from when I was seven remained terrifyingly clear. The smell of alcohol, my father's furious roars, and that pot of boiling water splashing toward my face.

It wasn't an accident—it was his "punishment" after another domestic violence episode, when he saw me crying in the corner.

"It's all because of you, you burden! If it weren't for you, your mother would have divorced me long ago!"

The pain was secondary; what was worse was the two years of hell that followed. Until I was nine, when my mother finally found the courage to take me and flee while he was passed out drunk.

We moved to an unfamiliar neighborhood, renting the downstairs unit from a kind family. The landlady was compassionate—when she saw my scar, her eyes showed only pity, no disgust.

Upstairs lived a boy named Liam, one year older than me. When we first met, he simply looked at me quietly, then said: "You have beautiful eyes."

From elementary through high school, we attended the same schools. Those classmates who mocked and bullied me would mysteriously back off. Much later I learned he'd been protecting me from the shadows.

But this scar had always been my mark, my curse.

I imagined Liam now in some luxurious photography studio, surrounded by beautiful models and assistants. His world was full of camera flashes, champagne, and applause. My world contained only cheap latex fumes and never enough money.

"Forget it. Just consider it a beautiful misunderstanding. Someone like me shouldn't even dare to dream."

I put my mask back on and set the magazine aside. Break time was over—I needed to get back to painting scars. This was my life: creating fake wounds on others' faces while the real scar on mine could never be accepted by anyone.

Maybe... maybe he already had someone more suitable by his side.

I took one last look at the magazine cover, then placed it back on the table.

Some dreams were enough just to have dreamed.