Makeup Smeared Eyes

She sat on the bed staring off into space with a haunted look in her crystalline green eyes. Her ivory hands, which had been cut by the glass picture frame when it shattered, were tangled in the t-shirt. It still smelt of his cologne. With that thought, her fragile frame shook once with heartbreaking sobs.

Memories of him came bursting through the thin dam she had built in her mind like a flood. Memories of heavy make-out sessions—we only made out; I can't remember him ever kissing me—and memories of his degrading laughter and the memory of her desperately begging him to stay, not knowing why she begged, but knowing he would leave without so much as a backward glance.

The funny (ironic) thing was she had never meant for him to get so close. He managed to get under her skin, something few others had ever accomplished—and he did it in half the time. Every scar from him, physical and emotional, will never truly fade, and I will never be completely, truly free from those last traces of him. This realization knocked the breath out of her, and led the way for other revelations.

I'm scarred and yet, he's untouched. Everything I've done for him—defended him when he didn't deserve it, stayed up all night waiting for his promised phone call, even written songs for him!—and yet, he didn't care. I'm starting to think he never cared. A wave of anger, much like the one only moments earlier that lead to the destruction of the picture frame, swept over her. The cologne-scented t-shirt was thrown into the washer, the pillow was utterly destroyed, and his face was cut out of every damn picture she had before the rage subsided, leaving only a fierce determination to blot out his memory and presence out of her life as much as possible, and move on.

The ruined pictures and everything he had ever given her were unceremoniously shoved into the glove box. Only the glove box will ever know how the true story went. She thought with a sardonic smirk twisting across her beautiful face. These cuts he left me with will add to the scars, but it will remind me that this wasn't worth the sting—he wasn't worth it, and I'll never fall for someone like him again.

She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, and moved her auburn hair away from her face to stare into her own emerald eyes, tear-stained and makeup-smeared. No more tears. I'll be okay. I will be stronger for this. I'll be okay. I'll be okay. She closed her eyes, chanting it in her mind and let it become her mantra.

After a few minutes, her eyes flew open, no longer red, and a true smile graced her features. No more waiting for Prince Charming. No more settling for Not-So-Prince-Charming. No more makeup smeared eyes. I'm going to find him myself.