In Reality
You take a shower, put on your clothes, and apply your make-up in an automatic, routine kind of way. It's your life now. You've perfected it in every which way and people look up to you as the ruler of the party scene. You take pride in it, it's the only thing you can take pride in nowadays. You've ruined your chances of ever exceeding in something, anything, else.
You put on the eye liner. People say you have nice eyes. You don't believe them. Those people are the same ones that say you are hot, sexy, trashy, or anything other demeaning thing you can call someone. That tiny fact diminishes the credibility of what they tell you. You put it on yourself, you realise that, but sometimes, in the safety of your bedroom where no one can see the façade break, you long for someone to tell you positive things about you. You took psychology, so you know, in some level, that the way you are right now, has a lot to do with your parents too.
You put on the eye shadow next. It's amazing how much you depend on your everyday make-up to conceal whatever you feel. You can't have people knowing personal things about you, they'd only use it to their advantage, mostly to spread rumours about you. Guys do it to keep their reputations up, so they make up stories about what a hot lay you were. Girls tend to stick to nastier, vicious rumours, like how trashy you look. You've got walls as high as they can be around your heart, so they never know how much it hurts.
You don't need foundation or concealer for your skin, the rouge enhances your cheekbones and the look of your pale, flawless face enough. One brush, two brushes, three brushes. You hardly look at yourself in the mirror as you apply the rouge. You can't stand the reflection you'll see when you do. There are moments, though, when your eyes take quick peeks, and when that happens, you can't drag them away. You don't like what you see staring back at you. Some people say you are gorgeous, guys say you're sexy and hot, but all you see is a pale face with dull eyes. You see your mother's dissaproving eyes and your father's tedious lips staring back at you.
You glide the mascara over your lashes. Sometimes you wish your lashes would grow and tape your eyes shut. You don't want to get that feeling of rejection anymore. Your parents hate you, you don't have friends anymore because you drove them away, and the rest of the school thinks you're a trashy slut. Your life used to be so good. You thought you'd finally found a sense of happiness when you fell in love for the first time in your life, and you finally opened up your heart. It didn't work, he destroyed you just a little bit more, and you don't think he understood the serious ramifications of what he did.
You put on your trademark red lipstick. He broke your heart, not only once, but twice. You'd opened up to him the first time, you'd shown him everything of you, laid your soul bare, and he'd stabbed you in the back together with your best friend. You admit that you weren't exactly the nicest person in town, but you're sure you didn't deserve that big a heartache. Time passed, he won you back, you opened up a little again, you screwed up a couple of times, but at least you tried, and then he went and did nearly the same thing again with the very same best friend as the first time. The second time didn't hurt nearly as much as the first time, but it hurt, and without even trying to act like they were sorry, they got together not even a while after you and he split up.
You define your eyebrows with a pencil and let a sigh escape your lips, the first sign of showing anything remotely lively of you. You wanted him to fight for you, you wanted him to be the one to finally show you after all these years of silent, unconscious, but verbal abuse by your classmates, that you are worth the fight, and that there was someone who cared enough to wait to get you to open up and let him in. You'd never been so disappointed in your entire life when he didn't fight anymore.
It all went downhill from there. You lost your real energy, your passion for life, because for all the neglect you've encountered from your parents, you couldn't wait to be in your twenties and finally pop out a kid to love and to raise that kid up with proper care. You lost your dreams, your aspirations, and it hurts the old you to realise that. The old you is still there, under all of your walls and deep inside your heart, but the overly dominant new you is steadily growing by the day and you're afraid you'll slowly rot away until you become just as cold as your mother. You've heard of physically abused children to later grow up to hit their own children, while knowing how much it hurts, just because it's been stomped into them by their parents. You wonder if neglect is something that can be instilled in you too, if you are bound to neglect your own children later.
You grab the bottle of nail polisher, twist the cap, and let the nauseating smell invade your space. You're always sick these days, always miserable with an ache you can't identify. You think it might be depression, but you haven't paid attention in psychology class enough to fully form a diagnosis. You've tried drugs, but it was a one time thing, and you vowed to never stoop that low again. You're pale, and if you weren't so beautiful, you might as well have looked like a drug addict. As it is, you are gorgeous, seeing as how you did inherit it from your parents.
There's a darkness inside your mind. It's slowly taking you over. It's growing every single day too, like a virus taking a hold of you. It's like everything you used to be is slowly decaying, and all that will be left in a few months will be a cold you, one filled with darkness. It scares you still, though more so because you don't want to become your mother, than that your really do not want to rot away.
You stand up, and only now do you take a full good look at yourself. You've gotten thin, thinner than a girl your age and of your length is supposed to be. You're hair is alright, you fluff it up one last time, a desperate attempt at delaying the moment when you're supposed to go out the door and face the world as the cold slut who thinks she rules everything.
You never think about suicide. If there's one thing you're still passionate and adamant about, it's that you will never even contemplate suicide, believing that it's a cowardice thing to do, even though you'd not leave behind any sad people whatsoever if you really were to take your own life.
You run your hands over your skirt, attempting to fold it neater than it really can be, and sigh, before turning your head, already hiding in your façade, and you open the door, already smiling when you see the rest of your 'friends', girls who think they own the universe if they have befriended you. You crave alcohol now, you crave to forget the world as you stumble into a drunken haze, so you tell them to hurry up, and they roll their eyes, thinking of how bitchy you are.
You close the front door softly behind you and sigh, smoothing your skirt down again. This is your life now. This is who you are.