Blood was warm under my palms. His or mine , ho cares. Warm meant real. And for the first time in my life, I needed reality. I reached for my purse; my phone was dead. Good. Very good. Smoke curled into the metallic smell of blood. My brain grabbed onto nonsense — that girl outside the club. Sweaty, glittering, mascara smeared. Her feverish dancing was soul-wrestling against everyone around her, then later collapsing on the bathroom floor after a heroic line of ketamine. I wonder if she got home.
AM I?
AM I?
AM I?
hard to breath..
ha..
Eventually, I stood. Bathroom. Shower. Hot water burning my skin — comforting, almost kind. I washed everything off. It feels nice.. Then I put on my favorite dress, the one gifted by the corpse currently decorating my living room.
Underworld — Beautiful Burnout.
Volume up.
Makeup on.
Hair loose.
Vivienne Westwood corset.
Fine, I'll admit it: I looked good and alive , not like the one Behind me.. his body. A very silent accessory.
I waited for panic, horror, guilt. Anything. Nothing. Figures. Very "psychopath chic" of me.
I looked at myself in the mirror again
i closed my eyes
and imagined myself in the mirror again
and i open my eyes..
Fluorescent lights. Wood paneling. A judge staring down at me
My lawyer , a man in his forties with kind eyes and the emotional warmth of a damp towel — touched my arm gently. TIK TAK TIK TAK TIK TAK...
He leaned in close, his disgustingly soft voice brushing my ear."Just breathe… and tell them like we talked before."
I burst out laughing.
he whole scene — oh god — it was perfect.The dramatic lighting.The judge with his righteous eyebrows.The tragic faces in the audience.The "concerned" lawyer.Everyone performing their roles with such conviction.Beautiful. Beautiful actors.
Their faces shifted — confusion, alarm, pity —and beneath it all, something else flickered.Like their expressions were sliding on and off.Masks.
And for the first time, I wondered:
Am I the one on trial…or is this entire world on trial for lying to me?