Scene no. 1

When I cry, I cry in my best Chanel. My mom once said (with the obligatory glass of vodka in one of her manicured hands): if reality feels like 8.0 on the richter, a sensible women creates an illusion of balance with any means available.
I was never a fool enough to point out the flaws in that way of reasoning. But also I was just a kid back then (guess I lost a few brain cells since).
Plus I'm nowhere near sensible.
Here I am nevertheless; keeping truth on an arm's length by eating cake with my hands in a wordless, animalish desperation. I can hear my mother holler all the way from Karelen: put the lipstick back on, hun.
Truth to be told: these clothes aren't bulletproof, nor is the body they enclose. But at least I wear my scars where no one can see them.

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