Crave For You

Sofia

I would be lying to myself if I said I was brave. It would be a lie that would someday come to bite me back.

The truth is—I am a coward. I have no fight in me. The only thing brave about me is that the darkness I once feared has become my only company. I almost find it pitying me. My eyes are accustomed to the dark room or perhaps, that's all my imagination because even in the dark, I believe I can see things. Images, my past written on walls, my blood making sketches on the concrete.

"You're beautiful." The makeup artist's voice snaps me from my thoughts. I blink a few times, pushing away the darkness to realize where I stand.

The mirror reflects a pretty girl in a red dress, the length of it making a bloody contrast of maroon and shimmering black on the white floor as if it was a depiction of my shattered heart bleeding out. The dress hugs my body and blends with my curves in provocative ways. The neckline is low, diving into my sternum, and displaying my cleavage. This isn't a dress I am comfortable wearing but I have no choice.

I hazily remember being dragged out of the dark room, my engagement ring left on the cold floor, then being pushed into another—a room that spoke of grandeur. I remember being dragged to the bath, being scrubbed clean from head to toe, my hair blow-dried, the dress shoved over my body, my long hair pinned into a stylish bun, makeup slapped over my cheeks, lipstick swept across my lips, an eyeliner mapping the shape of my eyes. All along I stood like a robot, a coward without her tongue, unable to voice what she really wanted, unable to think of anything except the dark room where phantom touches tormented me once again, leaving me screaming my throat raw.

I feel the sting even now as I try to open my mouth and respond to the woman. She looks at me, her head nodding in understanding. She must understand my plight. Then why does she force me to play dress up?

"They are waiting for her," a new voice joins in as one of the maids, who had been responsible for bringing me food, appears in the doorway.

The woman who has been doing my makeup nods, bending down to pick up a makeup brush from the set spread across the vanity.

"Don't let them scare you." I jerk as her voice caresses the shell of my ear. She lifts her gaze to meet mine in the mirror, a soft smile on her lips. "Be brave."

She gives my left shoulder a gentle squeeze, her touch sending a wave of courage through me, helping me sit my spine straighter. She backs away, letting the maid join me as I rise to my wobbling feet, my nails digging into my palms.

The maid guides me out of the room. I want to look back to find the eyes of the much kinder woman one last time but tell myself that she wouldn't be able to save me from this fate. She was only giving me courage—courage to stand on my own and yet, it is a defeat still. A makeup artist can see through the layers. She saw right through mine too. She saw that this was a war I could not win on my own. I can only pray to keep my head attached to my neck.

The music downstairs is the first thing I hear before the hallway comes into view and with it a crowd of people dressed like they have come straight to a gala, their champagne glasses glinting in their hands, their chatter filling the air. Their laughter grits my teeth, mocks me as I am pushed forward like a sacrificial lamb past the crowd of guests. They all stop to glance my way, their chit-chat and laughter ceasing when they spot me.

I swim my eyes through the crowd, recognizing the faces of a few people from when they attended my engagement with Gabriel. I recognize politicians, celebrities, singers, and even photographers. They are perhaps the most surprised with the turn of events.

I consider stopping in my tracks, voicing for anyone to help me out of this mess. But before I can do that, a hand presses on the small of my back, its touch setting on me like ice in my gut.