by Farai Kwesha
tweet@fatsoRai
SHORT STORY
PURPLE TEARDROPS
S
he smothered the gaudy neonpink lipstick over her mouth,
the stick remaining pressed
against her lips with each aggressive
stroke. The Maybelline models in the
ads, she'd observed, always pouted
when they did it, so she was "on the
right track" she thought. She blamed
her inexperience on her indolent
mother, who she believed had failed
her by not teaching her such an
essential part of womanhood – how to
be beautiful.
with the highest Grade Point Average
ever recorded in the district, her high
school's valedictorian who had
graduated summa cum laude – was
clueless. This realisation was
followed by an even more
consternating discovery, THEY HAD
WON!
“Nerds had their heads
plunged in trash cans, the girls
were as angst as ever, the
" J e s u s f re a k s " d a m n e d
everyone to hell, and the
popular kids ruled over this
jungle with manicured fists.”
"Beauty is not born, it is made."
Although she could never recall
exactly where she'd heard those
words, they pecked at her, and
regardless of whether they had any
truth to them, in this moment she
chose to believe them. If only she
could get the brush-stroke techniques
down, and quit her habitual eyetwitching whenever the eyeliner
touched the tip of her eyelids.- She
couldn't.
Her fingers trembled, as she
cluelessly rummaged through the
remaining contents of her mother's
make-up kit. What lay before her,
were foreign objects – tweezers,
mascara, bronzer, and something else
that looked like a tiny pair of scissors
– it was all very disorienting. This was
the first that time that she, - the girl
Those "vapid, airhead, oversexed
whores" – as she'd often describe
them in an inaudible whisper as they
breezed past her in the hallway – had
won! Those "self-obsessed
strumpets" – who probably didn't
even know what "strumpet" meant,
had bested her.
High school had been rough. Each day
was plagued with the shenanigans
typical of recalcitrant teenagers.
Nerds had their heads plunged in trash
cans, the girls were as angst as ever,
the "Jesus freaks" damned everyone
to hell, and the popular kids ruled over
this jungle with manicured fists. It
appeared that only she could see it for
what it really was, a cliché reenactment of Mean Girls.But then
again, this was her superiority
complex speaking.
The strawberry-scented rulers of this
domain did their best to make her feel
inadequate, constantly picking on her
untamed jet-black mane, her glasses
which were evidently too large for her
face, and her social awkwardness.
Most days she was unfazed, on others
she confronted them, which only
egged them on. She was a very
insignificant David, pitted against a
trio of very determined Goliaths. She
had sworn to never become like them,
and yet, here she was – desperately
trying to recreate herself in their pinup doll image.
She paused, and stared blankly into
the mirror, looking past the rosycheeked, racoon-eyed girl staring
back at her, in search of something someone familiar. Realising she was
lost, she began to gasp uncontrollably
and a tear, tinted purple by her burnt
eye shadow, trickled down her right
cheek. She quickly wiped it off with
her hand but failed to thwart the
stream of tears that followed
accompanied by involuntary jerky
sobs. After one heavy breath inwards,
she wiped her face clean, stared
intently into the mirror once more,
and smiled.
.
F
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JAN 2015. CM. Page 13