THE BODYGUARD (Michael Jackson)

She's So Clumsy

1987
6:44 AM

Salma sighed, pursing her lips into a smile. Straining every muscle in her face, the skin around her eyes creased.

Her face fell into a blank and solemn expression.
Her lifeless eyes stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her cheek was bruised and her lip busted.

One of her eyes was nearly swollen shut while the other looked sunken in.

With trembling fingers she began to place a thick layer of concealer along her skin, lathering it on frugally. She winced as she patted the layer down with a powder puff.

Faint purple hues peeked from underneath the makeup. Turning her head, she scanned the faint discoloration.

She shook her head, her face scrunching into a tight scowl. Her eyes clenched shut, she inhaled sharply.
The tears threatened to spill, she cleared her throat.

'Just a few more hours,' she assured herself.

Sucking in her lips, she let out a deep and long sigh.

If she could do it all over again, she would.
Perhaps a redo of the past would turn into a different present.
Even if she were to redo a week or perhaps just a day she was certain things would be a whole lot different.

_________________

Salma walked out into the hallway, shifting her hips a certain way as she shuffled forward. In between her legs, the soreness had already nestled in.

"You'll be alright staying here with her if production gets extended for twelve months?" Vincent's booming voice echoed from the first floor.

Blood rushed out of her face and her eyes widened.
'Vincent hired a bodyguard,' she recalled to herself; internally she cringed.

"Of course," a man answered back, his voice light and airy.
Her brows knitted, the voice not at all what she expected.

She crept down the hall, making her way to the staircase. Curiosity grabbing a tight hold of her, she peered into the living room from where she stood.

Vincent's tall and broad figure stood next to a much smaller man.
The man had a head full of dark and curly hair, his shoulders being the broadest part of his slim body.

"Salma," Vincent called out, his voice higher than normal.

Gathering all the spit in her dry mouth, she swallowed harshly. She brought her hand up, her fingers brushed through the thick strands of hair.

It was as if her husband had a sixth sense of some kind. As if he could feel her burning curiosity from the top of the staircase.

"Sal' there you are! There's someone I want you to meet," Vincent exclaimed eagerly. His out, gesturing for her to stand by his side.

She inhaled sharply, moving her hair to cover her cheek slightly.

"Don't mind her face, she's so clumsy. She fell down the stairs," he explained to the man.

He nodded but glanced down, her eyes followed the direction of where the man's gaze met; Vincent's hand.
Along his knuckles were bruising; so faint on his dark skin.

'Smile.'
Cheeriness seemed to fool anyone into believing her husband's stories.

Vincent linked his arm around her slim waist. His embrace was rough even when he attempted to be loving.

"Hello, you must be Mrs. Bianchi," his velvety voice swam into her ears.
The shade of his skin was a deep caramel tone, though his hands were about a few shades darker than his face.