This time it’s a short story featuring confession of a mad woman. And when I say “mad” – I mean it. Hope you enjoy. P.S: this is my first piece to participate at WriteOnEdge.com write-in, so hopefully it will be enjoyable.
I have always loved to write diaries. I think, you might agree with me, – there is some kind of magic about it. Yellow pages, pressed-in handwriting and perfumed bookmarks. Does it feel familiar to you? Do you recognize yourself?
In my story about diaries I was just like anyone else – emotionally drained, aggravated, discouraged. I was just like you, searching for answers in this ego-centric world, until one day I looked in a mirror. I stared at my face: at my cheeks, my nose and eyebrows. I couldn’t help myself but think: was I pretty? “Pretty is not enough” – I answered loudly to the mirror. Was I beautiful? “Beauty is abstract – that’s what momma told me” and I smirked, and then I sighted. I was bored with myself, as if I would have lost any interest in conversing with the mirror. I posed for a split second more, sending air kisses to my dull reflection. “Ouch!” – my outcry was loud. Somehow I bit my lip. Dry skin easily cracked, tearing with a drop of blood. Without hesitation, I reached for a piece of cotton, when my eyes caught sight of this: red lipstick. I did not remember ever buying it or, God forbid, using. Curiosity took over and my fingers unwillingly grabbed the slim perfectly shaped tube; for a quick moment I forgot the pain.
I gazed at myself as if I would be gazing at the stars. My blond curls hugged curvy cheeks, I had pretty eyes and a slim nose, but forget about that. My lips could never be colored red, if only because of blood that was still dripping off. Other than that, I couldn’t pull off Marilyn’s look, and who could? Not in real life, no.
Well, maybe I wasn’t Marilyn, but let me tell you something: she was Norma Jeane once. So maybe I could become someone else? And even if not, I could still try it! So I painted my lips red, as if I would paint canvas’.
Forgive me greatly if I live on the pages of my diaries, it’s just like real life, only better. Sadness and pain was never mentioned again, neither was I. It was about women, daring enough to wear red lipstick. I lived their lives, I traveled the world and my heart was conquered by numerous men. I was brave and beautiful, desired and intriguing – red lipstick did its job. Like a drug it surprised me with its sudden cure and addiction. I could not stop living scenarios of my imaginary ladies. They were my best friends, and also so much better then me. They teased me and even encouraged a bit. I felt I belonged. Every night they begged me to stay, gently whispering that if I do I shall be happy, and this hazard of love never more will trouble me. I truly believed.
So I painted my lips red every time I would flip my diary opened and I would kiss goodnight every one of them, leaving stained red mark on the pages of my illusion.
OK, some additional reading candy to have:
- Short Story: Disappeared (lifein64squarefeet.com)