She wakes up.
t’s the same monotonous rituals everyday.
She likes it that way; she likes knowing what’s next, she likes knowing what ten things are next. It’s safe that way, she always thought so. Standing under the shower, she thinks of her day, plans every second of it. She likes being in control, being in control of what she does next, what she says, what she thinks.
She steps out, treats herself with the calming touch of moisturiser, and then she hides imperfections behind layers of clothes. She had already carefully picked them the night before, of course. Next, the make up. The eye-liner, mascara and lip balm; to give life to her sunken eyes and sooth her smokey lips. She takes a deep breath and let it all out in a sigh. A sigh of acceptance, she always thought, acceptance of who she has become over the years; torn broken, dismantled but yet, so together – the irony amused her. She let’s out the sigh, and plasters a smile on her face. The latter was considered the most trivial among all the little things she does on a morning. Plastering that smile which she will wear for the rest of the day until she comes back to her den and faces the mirror.
She says a little prayer to God’s she has long lost faith in: “let today be easy”. She is mindful of her words, she never asks for good, she knows its too much. She just hopes it would be bareable, the she would be able to wear her smile in place the whole day. Its exhausting, it drains what’s left of her soul, but that’s the only way she knows how to get by.
She knows who she’ll talk to, who she’ll see, who she’ll avoid, and those few who knew her well enough to return the favour. She’d limit the conversation to a “hello” and make a point not to dwell on the “how are you?”. Knowing how another person is establishes a connection, does it not? She always thought it did and she hated it, she hated connections. She knows no one can understand her. They try, they do, but she know they don’t understand. She makes sure of it, she makes sure that they don’t understand. She is taunted by the possibility of loosing the few she has if they fully comprehend the demons seeking refuge behind her smile.
She walks out of her den, floral patterns dancing on her summer dress, a smile plastered on her face, humming a happy song and skipping to its beat. She walks out of her den, to convince a hundred soul-less skeletons that she is happy, She walks out of her den to pretend she is oblivious to all those whispers down the street about her,
She walks out of her den, to fool the world.