In response to today’s prompt: Fake.
Her skin is red like it’s been slapped, and it might as well have been. Grief hits her over and over again, knocking her to the floor. She collapses like a foldable chair; her legs bend easily under the stress, and her arms throw themselves down to protect her from the fall.
She lies on the carpet for a little bit. The familiar scrape of the rough fiber against her legs reminds her that she is real. In this moment, the emptiness of her emotion tricks her into believing life is an imitation of her pain.
A knock at the door picks up her head, cradles it, and brings her back to reality.
She faces her vanity. A smear of black mascara follows the wiping motion of her hands against dirty tears. She sniffles and pats powder over her nose. Puckering her lips, she feigns a smile, conceals a frown with a swipe of blush lipstick.
Another knock reverberates inside her and threatens to push her down, but the door is shaking with whoever it is asking to be let in.
“Coming,” she says.