Butterfly Kisses
Message from Liz at 18:00 :
I'll see you at 10. Don't be late. I miss you.
A faint smile crosses Amber's face as she reads the message. It's difficult to read due to the spider web of cracks across the phone screen, but she understands it nonetheless. They were meeting tonight. They were meeting tonight and nothing was going to prevent it.
She turns her attention to getting ready. She has two hours to go and a lot of preparation to go through to make herself look presentable. They were only going for a coffee, but Amber needed to look perfect. Liz couldn't know anything different.
Her dressing table is littered with beauty products - false lashes, eyeshadow, lipstick, blusher, highlighter, etc., etc. She has every colour you could imagine, each one dedicated to a certain outfit. Today she will wear purple. The colour of royalty. She picks out the black lipstick, lavender concealer, and glittery purple eyeshadow. The rest are discarded into her draw for another day.
She hovers over the stool, not wanting to sit down, and begins to apply her makeup. The concealer is almost empty, but it's enough to cover up her flaws for one more night. One more meeting. She dabs it onto her skin, almost painting her entire face purple, before covering it with her olive foundation. The rest was easy - pure decoration. She didn't need the large eyelashes or highlighted cheekbones, but it completed the look. No one would question a girl with a full face of makeup.
Once she finishes turning into a porcelain doll, she tidies the table. The makeup is all hidden away in the drawer, and she wipes the surface down with baby wipes. It's as if she was never there. Just the way they like it.
She stands in front of the full-body mirror in the corner of the room, admiring her work. She looks beautiful. But the more she gazes at her slender body, the more she worries. What if she's missed something?
It's half an hour until ten now. She's full of anticipation, or is it nerves? Maybe both. Thirteen months have passed since she and Liz last met, after all. They used to meet up every week, but push came to shove and Amber had to close off the connection. She couldn't face Liz; not with the look of sympathy that was always plastered onto her face. She couldn't stand it. But now she won't have to face it again. Not tonight. Not any night.
There's a knock at the door; Liz must have come early. Amber rushes down the stairs, almost tripping over on the last step, and stumbles to a halt in front of the door. She knocks again. Amber steadies her breathing and realigns her bun. If it is falling out, she will claim it’s supposed to be messy. After a couple of seconds, she opens the door and her heart drops.
Her heart drops and never returns.
The door slams shut and she stumbles backwards. This time she comes into contact with the floor. Her ass aches. She stares up at the person who just entered her house and begins to cry.
He does nothing. He just stands there blocking the door. Blocking her exit.
Amber's makeup begins to wash away. Her mask shattered right before his eyes. There's no point hiding her true self in front of her creator. They already know her true colours. Black and blue.
Hours pass, or maybe just minutes, before he moves. He moves and she moves with him, hand in hand. Back to their bedroom. Back to her chamber.
The door remains closed.
Message from Liz at 22:30 :
Amber? Where are you?
Message from Amber at 7:23 :
Sorry, I fell asleep. Maybe next time?
_
Rosemarie Slater is from a small town in Nottinghamshire, and currently studies at the University of Nottingham. She enjoys nature, often going on long walks around local woodlands, and reading outside when the weather permits it. Her love for reading is thanks to her parents, especially her dad, who introduced her to many authors who have greatly influenced her writing. Last year, she published a chapbook of her poetry entitled 'Narcissus Amongst Lillies' focusing on similar themes present in her short story 'Butterfly Kisses'; the aim being to draw attention to toxicity in relationships.