It’s the smell. She can’t stand the fucking smell. Desperation mixed with vanilla cupcakes, stale sweat laced with the vestiges of last night’s drunk, and the nasty snatch of that one bitch who never seems to bathe. It makes her want to lose the two Xanax and the shot of Jack Daniels she washed them down with.
She lifts her head off the table, picks up the kohl pencil, and gazes at the mirror in front of her, not really seeing herself; seeing through herself. She avoids her own eyes. More makeup, is what she always thinks. Cover it all up; the disgust that she feels with herself, and with them. Cover it up until she looks like someone else, so she can keep lying to herself.
This was never how she pictured her life; it wasn’t where she thought she would ever be. She had always wanted to be on a stage, but not one with a fucking pole on it. After a series of poor decisions, and a string of fuck stick men who couldn’t manage to keep their hands to themselves, it’s where she wound up. Quite the irony considering she still has to deal with men who can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves. At least they’re supporting me, she thinks, as opposed to the other way around.
**I wrote this for a writing prompt, Characterizing Scenes, over on Tipsy Lit. Erica told me I’m a writer, so what the hell, I’m trying to write something!