My Best Enemy

‘I’ve got a twenty dollar bill,

That says no ones ever seen you without makeup,

You’re always made up,’

Brand New – Mix Tape

There She is now, stood straight across from me. She’s looking at me with those big, painted on eyes. Fairy dust and jet line Her eyelids; She thinks it’s pretty but it’s faded and smeary, and a smudge sits messily on Her cheek. She’s too pale, so the crusty, scabby marks on Her chubby chops show up, along with the freshly squeezed spots.

She frowns at me, knowing that I’m staring at Her, so I look away. It’s rude to stare.

I turn my attention from Her face to Her arms. The upper arms are blotchy, the left one marked with a sunken pink and white scar. My eyes follow the dark hairs down to Her raw elbows and wrists, then to the dragon-skin fingers with uneven nails.

She’s wearing a too tight vest, and her obviously padded bra peeks out of the top. Then there’s the trashy miniskirt and decrepit fishnets; her ugly, bumpy legs showing through the holes. She’s too squat and dumpy to wear that skirt, explaining the worn out, hulking great boots encasing her legs. She’s not wearing the other shoes I’ve seen Her in, the tarty, see-through stilettos that look like they belong to a drag queen. She looks like someone you’d see shifting around Soho’s alleyways at night, setting the baggage of a smack addiction and six kids down next to Her on the wall, while some drunken, sweaty, foul-breathed ‘client’ presses Her against it.

And from what I’ve heard, that’s not so far from the truth. I’ve heard of Her tabloid-worthy exploits. A sordid, seedy, scary history not worth the used condom or the dirty tissues.

And She has a boyfriend. How, I don’t know, because she has neither looks nor a ‘good personality’. I’ve heard Her complain about him, how he’s too nice to Her, how he’s too quiet, how he just plain irritates Her. I’ve met him a couple of times and I must admit She’s right; he is too nice to Her. For Valentines Day he left her a rose and a card outside her house, when she didn’t do a thing for him. He’s one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met, and he’s going out with Her.

She has it all really. She’s got a boyfriend, She’s got nice parents, She’s got money, She’s getting good grades. But She’s unbelievably stupid. She says the wrong things, She snorts when She laughs, She falls over, She dribbles. She has the grace of a baby elephant, and the table manners to match.

I shake my head and turn away, contemplating what She said to me today.

‘Bloody hell, you look a right mess. Look at you.’

Then She started to prod at my flesh and pull my hair. She’s a bitch to me. She’s a bitch to everyone, really. She talks too loudly and too much, making weird comments for the sake of it. How Her friends bear her I’ll never know. She hits them too, never thinking She’ll be hit back. I long to see Her taken down a peg or two, when somebody finally does punch Her back, blowing Her cover and revealing that weak, selfish little girl.

She’s looking at me again, biting her lip, trying to figure me out. Well I’ve already figured Her out. I scowl at Her; She returns the favour, matching mine uncannily.

I glare at her in the mirror: my best enemy.