All of Us Are Going to Hell

TWO

 

8:04p.m.
 
The serpent deceived me.
EVE'S EXCUSE
 
Lips, hair, nails, eyes.

    That's my makeup procedure, and it works. I fish in my bag for my lip gloss, the new sparkly one that's extra glossy. I find it. I face the wide mirror, and I slather a fresh coat. I smack my lips.

    Hair. A can of hairspray meets my hand when I search my bag. It's a new one, too and it smells better and makes my extensions shine when they move. Mom got me this one, I think.

    I pop open the cap.

    I hold it over the massive mound of strawberry blonde curls that is on my head. I spray. A smile curls on my lips. You're wasting time, Lilith, a voice hisses at the back of my mind that strangely sounds like Mom. I roll my eyes and groan internally at the thought. But the voice is right. I am wasting time in this bathroom.

    Nails next. I take out the quick dry Touch nail polish I found window shopping last week. It's a bright bubblegum pink one with tiny glittery butterflies in it. I pry out the wand and with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, I apply it on all ten of my fingers. It dries in a second and I flash them in front of the mirror for some invisible audience. Bitch, I think, you are giving.

    My eyes have a whole other procedure of their own, which is longer, but I still do it, anyway. Eye-shadow, eyeliner, mascara. These three make my YouTube tutorials stretch far off into thirty minutes, forty-five, some days. But I can't start from scratch. I'll use what I have here to get what I want. That's what Mom always says when she's giving me dating advice: Use what you have to get what you want, Lilith. It's the only way it'll work out, babes.

    I'm halfway through the eyeliner now. The colour of my eye-shadow is neither bright nor dark, because when people see me, the first thing they will see are my eyes and I want that moment to be on point. My eyeliner is fuchsia and you would only see it if I looked your way—which is what I want, really. My mascara is one thing that gets me doing makeup, to be honest. It's Oriflame and when I hold it, I swear, it gives me power.

    I'm powerful.

    I dab fresh coats on my lashes and they straighten before they curl. I blink a few times to make sure it stays that way. It does. I'm done. I pack it all up, all of my instruments, no, weapons of power and stow them away for my next battle in my bag, before zipping it shut.

    I face the mirror. And I sigh.

    You are a gazelle. I nod and flick the hair bouncing on my shoulders.

    A motherfucking beautiful gazelle. And when you walk, and talk, you slay like a gazelle.

    I point to the mirror at the beautiful bitch staring back. “You are a motherfucking goddamn gorgeous gazelle, bitch,” I say aloud to her and we both smile. “Let's go show these motherfuckers who's queen.”

    And I sashay out of the bathroom.

    Dua Lipa is singing at the top of her voice throughout the house, Levitating blasting over the surround-sound. I purse my lips at an imaginary audience in the corridor, on my way to the living room, perfecting my theatrics because that's what all this is—a great show that we all have to perform in. I even do a spin and give my hair a flick. When I emerge down the stairs and find my way to the living room, I see a sea of heads, bobbing and gyrating in perfect rhythm to the beat of the music. Dramatic entrance, Lilith. Drama.

    I curl over the bannisters and suck in a breath. “Who's ready to party?” I scream at the top of my voice and hoots, cheers and catcalls are my response. I synchronise my most theatrical air kisses in my head, do them and expertly catwalk down the stairs and slip into the crowd.