I slipped into the bathroom and stared long and hard at the creature in the mirror. I pulled out my stolen stick of red lipstick, previously hidden under the layers of colors and pastel powders in my mother’s drawer. I drew cleanly onto my lips, shaping my mouth into beautiful , brilliantly red, bloody blossoms that simply dripped with scarlet pleasure. I put the lipstick down and contemplated my appearance. Slowly, I smiled. I plastered my face with the most sardonic, creepy, superficial, poster girl smile of a delusional megalomaniac psychopath I could muster. And I thought (and I thought): This is me. This is who I have become.
Even after I wiped that lipstick off with the back of my hand, smearing it raw all around my eating hole until it looked like I had taken a bite out of a lion’s heart, I couldn’t stop the ringing echo of that thought, rattling around my skull. I stared dead pan into my still putrid eyes, wide like a doe’s. I couldn’t stop smiling.
That image will haunt me forever.