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.love in february.

- aka

loveless

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“Don’t be shy,” he said, his smile lucid as his hands rested themselves upon her shoulders, so warm and comforting. “I’d just like to watch.”

But I don’t ever want you to see me like this—it’s all she could think about. How come he could ask this of her? Didn’t he know that she’d never leave him?

“They all look at you,” he whispered, “and I know—I know, don’t tell me I don’t.” His breath against her ear was just the comfort she needed; he was so close, so close. That feeling in her stomach, something so similar to butterflies but they were a little darker—it wasn’t pretty enough to be a butterfly, twittered almost painfully. Why ever did she think that?

“They look at you all the time. You’re so pretty.”

Compliments that she would soon never receive because of this; because of what he wanted.

“No one has ever been as pretty as you.”

She turned around to face him, biting at her glossed lower lip. “You won’t want to kiss me anymore.”

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Shh, sweetheart—don’t ever say that. I’ll kiss you forever, no matter what.” He paused. “Do you know why?”

“Why?” she whispered, entranced by his dark eyes; eyes so full of secrets and untold lies. But she loved them anyways.

“Because I love you.”

Not a lie. She clung to him, to his words, to his eyes. “I love you too,” she said through a smile. So sincere. . . how stupid he thought she could be. He smiled back, touched her cheek, then turned her around. She looked back in the mirror and wiped her lipgloss off with a sleeve. Then she rubbed her eyes, violently almost, until the eye makeup smudged. She dropped her hands. “I look like a racoon.”

“You look damaged,” he said, “but so beautiful still.”

He passed her the scissors. She began to snip at her eyelashes, oh so carefully, snip-snip-snip. She could see his disgust as they fluttered down the drain, down onto the counter top, down onto the tiled floor.

“You still love me?” she asked, voice hopeful.

He was rigid, but he still held her shoulders. “Of course.”

She cut her hair. Hastily, messily, before she could think it over. And then she shaved the shortness off, listening to the whiz of the razor to forget what she was really doing. Don’t think, don’t think. When she was finished she looked at him in the mirror for support. He nodded, quickly but calculatingly.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

She looked at her own reflection. She was crying. The glitter from her cheeks melted away.

“Now cut,” he whispered in her ear, holding up the razor.

And she did. Slicing her skin; her cheeks, her chin. Her tears stung the cuts, the blood ran down her face in little rivers. The red contrasted dramatically against her pale complexion; she looked wrong. “Do you still love me?” she asked, staring in numbed shock at her ruined face. She had been so beautiful.

He laughed, dropped his hands, and said, “What do you think?”