I walk into the bar like I own it—though I don't. I don't own anything except the attention I steal and the silence I leave behind.
The room hums with noise—clinking glasses, low conversation, music that thinks it's background noise. But none of it touches me. The moment I step inside, heads turn. Eyes shift. I feel them before I see them. It's the red. It always is.
Red lips command the room before I even speak. I know that now. That's why I wear it.
I slide onto a cracked leather stool in the darkest corner of the bar, beneath a neon sign that flickers like a dying promise. It says HEAVEN, but I know better. Heaven doesn't smell like bourbon, blood, and secrets.
I don't order right away. I wait. Let the tension build. Let someone wonder who I am. Mystery is power.
When the bartender finally catches my gaze, I let my voice cut the air: "Double whiskey. Neat."
He nods, no small talk. Smart man.
I glance up at the mirror behind the bar and catch my reflection. The lighting is low, but it's enough. I tilt my head slightly, inspecting the red on my lips. It's darker than blood. Deeper than sin. I bought it last week under a fake name, like everything else I do now.
I can't stop staring at them. My lips. The shade. The way they curve when I lie.
That's the thing—this color, this fire on my mouth, it doesn't just paint me. It transforms me. I used to be someone else. Someone soft. Honest. But now?
Now, I don't even flinch when I lie.
My drink arrives. I take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in my throat. It's sharp, bitter. Like truth. But unlike truth, I've learned to enjoy it.
A man slides into the seat beside me. I smell him before I see him—designer cologne, desperation, and ego.
"You look like trouble," he says with a grin he probably practiced in the mirror.
I smile back, slow and venomous. "I am."
He laughs like I'm joking.
I'm not.
"Rough day?" he asks, eyes dipping where they shouldn't.
I sip my whiskey again. "I don't have days. Only nights."
He shifts closer. I can feel the heat from his body. It makes my skin itch. "What's a beautiful girl like you doing here all alone?"
I turn to him, let him see my eyes. Let him drown in them for just a moment.
"I'm not alone," I whisper.
He hesitates. Good. "Well, I don't see anyone—"
"You don't have to see the darkness for it to be real," I say, my voice low and even.
He stiffens, confused. He'll leave soon. They always do when I stop pretending.
A beat passes.
Then he laughs nervously, stands, and mutters something under his breath about "crazy." I don't stop him. I just raise my glass in a mock toast to his retreating back.
I feel powerful.
And hollow.
I stare back at myself in the mirror. The red has started to smudge at the corners, softening into something more sinister. I lick my bottom lip slowly, feel the texture of the lipstick, taste the lie in the pigment.
I'm obsessed. I know I am. With the way this version of me moves. With the way people react. With the silence I can summon and the chaos I can create with just a glance.
But the red on my lips isn't just a color anymore. It's a boundary. Once I cross it, there's no going back.
My phone buzzes.
I check the screen. Unknown number.
"You weren't supposed to be there last night. But you were. Why?"
My heart stutters. Once.
I scan the bar. No one out of place. No one watching too closely.
I type back: Wrong number.
Seconds later:
"Wrong girl, maybe. But I'm watching now. Red lips. Black lies. That's you, isn't it?"
I go still. Cold seeps into my fingers, but I force myself to stay composed.
Then, another message. A photo. Of me. Sitting at this bar. Taken minutes ago.
I can't breathe.
I swallow hard and lift my gaze slowly, scanning the crowd again. Still nothing. No obvious eyes on me. No sudden movements.
I take another sip of whiskey to steady my hands.
The phone buzzes again.
"You lied to me once. I won't let you do it again."
I try to remember who it could be. Which lie. But there are too many now. My life is a web spun in the dark. And I don't remember who I told what anymore.
My heart pounds. But I won't run. I never run. Not anymore.
I type one word: Who?
No response.
Just silence.
And that's somehow worse.
I tuck the phone into my bag, but my hands won't stop trembling.
I reach for my lipstick—same shade, same sharp silver tube—and slip into the bathroom. The lights in here are worse. Too bright. Too real.
I stare at myself in the mirror again. It's just me. Same dress. Same dark eyes. Same mouth painted like a promise I never intended to keep.
I reapply slowly. Methodically.
With every stroke, I become her again—the version of me who never stumbles. Who never bleeds. Who never admits to being afraid.
A woman built from red lips and black lies.
There's a knock at the bathroom door.
I freeze.
The voice is low. Male. Smooth.
"You can't run from what you've created."
I don't answer. I don't breathe.
I wait.
He doesn't knock again. Just walks away.
Eventually, I force myself back into the bar, pretending my knees aren't weak.
The bartender eyes me. "You alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, smiling like the world isn't unraveling in the corners of my mind.
I sit down again. Take my drink. Sip.
And then I see it.
On the napkin beneath my glass.
A number. And a single word scrawled in dark ink:
"Liar."
My lipstick leaves a perfect red print on the rim of the glass as I raise it to my mouth again.
I stare at the word.
And I smile.
Because it's true.
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