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The eyeshadow case falls with a clatter, sending puffs of fluorescent dust spattering over the sink and Barry's knuckles are the same shade as the bathroom counter he's gripping.
There's barely anything left of him these days-- the mascara tubes are dry and sticky, all the pans are showing more and more silver, and the foundation, the creams, the toner, the cleanser, even the toothpaste-- he lifts each one again, hoping he misread the expiration dates, but no.
His time is almost up.
The Resident has been away-- how long has it been? Days? Weeks?
The others, steady and secure in their permanence, are far less concerned with the Resident's whereabouts. Even Mitchell is indifferent-- he'll survive through his shelf-stable and freezer foods if Freddy can't keep his perishables fresh for the Resident's return.
But Barry?
He's already weak and there's no way he can hold out until then.
His pink coiffure has already begun to fall, and his cheeks are flushed with both fever and embarrassment. He lifts his glasses, inspecting his sallow reflection and wincing at the desperate expression he sees. He turns away and slides down the front of the cabinet and slumps like a ragdoll on the cool tile floor.
Thankfully, Amir and Bathsheba have gone on some kind of extended shit talking tour with Rebel, Jean Loo is hanging around downstairs with Sinclair and Johnny, and Lux never pays him any mind.
It's hard having roommates, and even harder when none of them care about any of your interests or listen to anything you have to say
...or pay attention to you when you're dying.
It's a little dramatic, but there's no other word for it. As his objects dwindle into nothing, so does he.
Sure, there are things like brushes, but so few of them survived spring cleaning this year, when the Resident decided to pare down their collection-- they'd be working remotely, after all, and without much reason to leave the house, putting on a full face just wasn't worth the time. They'd keep a few fun things around, but they had been ruthless in throwing out most of their cosmetics kit.
When the Resident left, they even took their toothbrush with them in their dopp kit and its resonant frequency is too quiet for him to hear outside the house. It was never quite aligned anyway-- he just gave it a home because no one else would claim it. His realm is all things temporary and consumable: skin care, makeup, hair products and nail polish.
Barry stares at the liner marks covering his limp arms and folds in on himself, trying to take up even less space than usual.
He's the only one in the house like this, without a stable presence or a permanent grounding set of objects to align with.
He's meant to be used up and disposed of, he's meant to be wiped off at the end of the day and rinsed down the drain. Even nail polish chips and flakes or gets dissolved away, hair dye fades and grows out.
A glint of light reflects off his compact mirrors onto something shiny beneath the clawfoot tub and he reaches for it-- a dusty, long-forgotten eyelash curler.
He holds it to his chest and lets out a sob as its resonant hum vibrates against him. It's permanent, yes, but combined with the few remaining brushes, it's only just enough to keep him stranded in this limbo.
He can see his near future stretching on before him: growing weaker and sicker, letting his body succumb to the bacteria growing in each expired product, but being kept alive, just barely, by the resonance of a mere eyelash curler and a handful of makeup brushes.
Even now, his faulty memory is already broken and disconnected, like the deteriorating liquids separating into oils and slime inside their tubes, and as they precipitate into crystalline solids and sticky molds, his sense of self will crumble and scatter, leaving him a hollow shell encrusted with glitter eyeshadow.
Disposable Barry.
Consumable Barry.
Expirable, perishable Barry.
He hopes the Resident returns before there's nothing left of him.