Lipstick on the pavement

The lipstick trembled before it slipped trough my fingers and landed in the sink. I let it lie there while my dark eyes studied the line it had painted on my jaw. It was so red it almost looked like blood. Biting my lip slightly I picked up a tissue and began washing the line. The only improvement I managed was smudging it, making it look like a big red bruise. I gave up and just stared at it for some time. It really suited my face, in a grotesque kind of way. It was different from the colors of the carefully applied makeup. Narrowing my eyes I began imagining it was blood. The mirror complied to my fantasy and sticky, red lines of fluid ran down the corner of my mouth covering my earlier mistake. It looked so real I could almost feel it. As it started dripping towards the sink I could swear there was a drop that fell on my hand. It was cold and wet and... real. My eyes darted to the back of my hand in disbelief. It couldn't be!

My other hand touched my jaw and there it was. The blood. Real, like the lipstick I had applied before. But how could it? I had imagined it, and now it was real. That seemed so impossibly possible and for a short second I wondered: what if? What if I could imagine something and it became real? What if I could change the world because I wanted to?

Everything would be... No! I discarded the word from my mind right before I was woken up from my reverie by my phone. Right, the club. I had to meet my friends at the club, hence the makeup and the uncomfortable clothes I was wearing. In a fuse of random thoughts I cleaned up the mess I apparently made with my mind, redid my lipstick and rushed out the door.

The car was already waiting in front of my house and the angry faces of my friends informed me it had been there for a while. Falsely apologizing I got in and immediately tuned out the ongoing conversation in favor of my thoughts about what had happened in my bathroom. I remembered thinking I could make things better if I so wished. Maybe even perfect. Perfect was the word I had discarded earlier. Perfect was the word that scared me the most, from all the words there are. Fear and pain had no meaning for me compared to perfect. It was what I desired and knew I couldn't achieve. I had never fitted in the rules of life. I had always lived my life in my head and never enough in real life. It seemed a blessing, to be able to try. I new that the only way to be embraced by the society was to be beautiful. I wasn't exactly ugly but I wasn't exceptional either. It was like the ultimate gift of nature: the ability to alter reality trough thoughts. Fascinating, but oh so dangerous. The perfect addiction.

I regarded my companions, who were oblivious to my train of thoughts, and decided it was then or never. I closed my eyes and imagined my skin subtly smoothing over every imperfection, careful not to make it seem to unreal. When I touched my cheek the spot I had noticed this morning was there no more. I couldn't refrain the wide grin that sneaked across my face. It looked like it was possible. Feeling more confident I joined the conversation from the car.

That night I found out how such little changes make a great difference. I had never felt the atmosphere of the club so vividly before. The music and the colors, the beat and all the tastes were almost intoxicating. Everyone was beautiful and for the first time I could admire them. I belonged to them, I was confident. It was a relief to enjoy the closeness to others, to look at people without feeling beneath them. I was be their equal. I was accepted in their society.

The compliments never chased coming, the drinks never stopped flowing and I was mesmerized for a while. But even Cinderella had to leave the ball and return home by midnight and at some point my fairytale faded away too. First I noticed that all the conversations I was having were hollow. The people around were preoccupied by one thing only: appearances. Then I noticed that all they wanted, was to judge someone else's looks. They would pick people who subjectively looked worse then them. They weren't as confident as I had perceived them. They had just put on a mask, not unlike myself, and were creating a perfect illusion. Like a castle of glass, my fantasy came down in seconds. There I was, on the stage of life, capable of doing anything. I could create myself just as I wanted and yet I was trying to fit in between other peoples lines. 

It was that moment I realized, I didn't want them to like me. I didn't want to be another pawn on the board, politely smiling every time it was appropriate. I wanted freedom and perfection was not freedom. Without any explanation, I left the club. And when I found myself on the sidewalk, in the dark, I felt like I could embrace reality for the first time. Maybe if I did, I would not be able to alter it trough my wish anymore, but it didn't matter. I knew the world was big and I had escaped the only prison holding me back from doing what I wanted. I had escaped the pitiful idea of perfection. I didn't know if perfection existed and I guess I would never find out, but I knew I didn't want it anymore. Freedom was more important, and freedom was not beautiful or easy, freedom was messy, hard and cruel, yet inspiring, exiting and addictive. Just like life.

Author's Note

Please ignore my grammar or spelling mistakes,I am really trying to avoid them, but English is not my mother language, so I can never be sure if what I write is correct.

Reviews

[fwvalidus]

Good little story you have here! You touch on a good theme and provide a nice perspective that visits two sides of the coin.

[Blu Ski]

I enjoyed your story a lot. It was fantastic, and I wish that's how a lot of people looked at perfection as something they may never get so why try to live up to it. It is definitely the best submission I've gotten so far for this contest.

[Charlotte Noir]

Thank you very much:) Perfection was never a subject I thought I could write about, your contest idea inspired me actually. Thanks for the encouraging, it was much needed.