She sits at her vanity, the light casting horror upon her features as she looks closer. She applies makeup, like usual, and fights to keep the tears at bay.
She’ll forgive him. Again. Because he says “he’s sorry,” and that “he loves her, he really does” and she believes him. Through all the black eyes and broken arms, the cuts and the busted blood veins, she always believes him. She always takes him back. Just because he says he loves her. With the empty words, void of emotion or any real apology, she feels better. She feels better with hollow words. “It’ll never happen again, you have my word.” he says every time. She takes the words, happily. But deep down she thinks, ‘his word is shit’.
But for now she sits, at her vanity, applying makeup so she can go out to dinner with that man, telling herself that he loves her too and that he means it. Telling herself that it’ll never happen again.
Readying herself, deep down, for the next day when this will all happen again.
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