PROSE: DRAMATIC ARTS

Whose name made you drink enough to forget your own? The tips of his fingers strolled all over your skin, all over your body but never made it to your heart. 4am called and it wants its gloom back. He smothered you with forged sunshine and stitched the flaws with pseudo social media posts; you acted so fond of the way he presented you but pleaded in your mind for more than – OBJECTION YOUR HONOUR – Objection overruled as he shoves the façade further down the throats of the jury. What do you plead? Guilty of a boring and unfulfilling relationship. Lacklustre and uninspiring. He clenched his fist around your creativity until the flow ran pale and then completely colourless. You succumbed to the unfortunate routine of pretending to be interested in the incoherent sentences he would spew – half ignorant and half attempts at intelligence. Did you tolerate it in hopes it would improve or in fear of the masses?  

Your unhappiness lay second best to keeping up appearances – oh the masquerade balls you’d throw, the decadent lies you’d serve up on glistening platters accompanied by the sharpest of silverware encase anybody wanted to drive one into your spine. Everybody was captivated – consumed almost, until the mask started to slip down the slender bridge of your nose. With your vulnerabilities seeping into the statuses ever so slightly and the delicate ribbon supporting the disguise unfastening behind your head – you panicked. ‘She’s no good’ the guests had whispered both amongst themselves and to him; you braved it whilst shuffling the shards of your sanity into your hands, seizing them so hard the jaded edges push through your palms. A public announcement would only be greeted with pity or maybe shame, so you swiftly decided the show must go on.

 

–  Molly Johnston

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