Brandy Eve Allen
I Wanted To Murder My Cheating Boyfriend, But I Did Something Much More Disturbing
By Holly Riordan
One second, Sammie had a fistful of my hair in his hand, his mouth murmuring I-love-yous in between gasps and moans. But then his phone chimed. I could see it sitting on the coffee table with her name illuminating the screen. Could tell his thoughts switched from my body to her body as he finished in my mouth.
The next second, I was fluttering around Sammie’s bathroom with blood dripping down my arm. The rings glittering between my knuckles were more than a fashion statement. They were medicinal. Each one had pointed, sharp edges that were perfect for improvising. Perfect for moments like this. They redirected the pain away from my heart.
“Are you okay, baby?” Sammie asked from outside the door. I must’ve been in there, scraping at my skin, for at least ten minutes. “Stomachache again?”
I unraveled a wad of toilet tissue to mop up the blood zigzagging down my skin. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I think I’m going to be okay, though. Just give me another minute.”
I could’ve used the lie as an excuse to head home. Could’ve screamed at him through the door to leave me the fuck alone and chat with his beloved Bethany. Could’ve just opened up the door and let him see the mess he’d made.
Instead, I pulled down my sleeves, moseyed over to the couch, and waited for him to join so I could rest my head on his lap. As long as he kept the phone in his pocket, out of my line of sight, I could pretend that the stinging in my arm was from a cat scratch.
The next day, it was too muggy out to wear long-sleeves or even a light jacket, so I made a pit stop on the way to Sammie’s house.
Walking in, it felt like any other makeup shop. Girls with contoured cheeks and flawless eyebrows stared me down, like I wasn’t worthy of walking through their precious aisles. I usually avoided places like this, dodged them like they would infect me with their materialism, but I needed a bottle of concealer to cover up my cuts. I would’ve bought it online, like I bought everything else, but I needed it to match my skin tone to a tee. Plus, I didn’t want to wait for it to be delivered. Twenty-first century problems.
After two seconds of browsing, the most unnatural woman there, an older lady with neon blue lips and pencil thin eyebrows, asked me if I needed any help.
“Just point me toward the concealer if you could.”
She narrowed her eyes, examining me for a few moments, and then pressed her palms against my cheeks. I’d heard of workers giving out complimentary makeovers, but I hadn’t heard of anything like this. It felt like a form of sexual harassment. Except… It was kind of relaxing, like a massage without any movement. Her hands felt warm. Calloused. Chilly. Soft. It was a bizarre series of sensations. Sensations I never thought could coexist.
“Honey,” she said, her voice as soft as silk. “We have a special place in the back for you.”
I took a step away, so she’d drop her hands from my face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what you’re looking for isn’t here. But I know where it is. I can get it for you.”
I should’ve turned down the offer, but part of me thought that she must’ve been selling weed on the side, so I followed her behind the counter and into a stuffy backroom that barely held the two of us.
To my disappointment, all I saw were rows upon rows of makeup. They looked like any other aisle in the store, except each product came in a shimmering gold or silver container.
The woman, who I could now see had a dream catcher tattoo behind her ear, grabbed a bottle and uncapped it for me. “Put it on your wound,” she said. “Make sure it covers well.”
I was about to ask her how she knew the makeup wasn’t meant for my face, but then I realized I was in short sleeves, my cuts on full display. So I put on the concealer. As soon as I rubbed it across my skin, the cuts seemed to vanish. No. No, they actually did vanish. Was that even…?
I spit on my hand and used the saliva to wipe the concealer away, but all I saw was skin. Healthy, clear, unscarred skin. The fucking cuts had been healed.
Before the questions could come pouring out of my mouth, the woman asked me one. “You’re with a cheater?”
“Huh? I mean… No. No, I don’t think he’s done anything yet. He’s just been flirting with this girl. He’d fuck her if she let him, probably. I don’t know. It’s not like it matters. She’s just leading him on, so…” I shrugged.
“A cheater’s a cheater, no matter what shade.” She placed the glittering container back on the shelf and fished for another one. “That concealer was a sample. A free sample. But I’m willing to sell you something else that’ll help you if you’re interested. Something for that boyfriend of yours.”
I switched my weight from my left leg to my right. Neither position felt comfortable. “What’ll it do?”
“What do you want it to do?”
I didn’t know what the hell I was dealing with. A modern-day witch? A magician? A chemist? A con artist? I could’ve spent hours questioning her backstory, but there was no way in hell she’d give me the information I wanted. But for some reason, something inside of me still trusted her.
So I bought one of every item she had.
“I have a surprise for you,“ Sammie said once I reached his house, his voice singsong. He paused for dramatic effect, and then dangled a key in front of my face. “I made a copy for you. You’re here all the time, and you’re always complaining about how I forget to unlock the door for you, so now you’ll… Now you’ll be able to let yourself in.”
He fumbled in the middle of his ‘cute’ speech, because his bloody phone beeped. This time, I was close enough to see the actual text. I didn’t bother to read the words, because I caught sight of several heart emojis and an eggplant.
I was ready to make my daily trip to the bathroom to tear myself apart, to strip him of the power to hurt me by hurting myself. But before I could rise, I decided against it. Decided to resist temptation and fumble through my purse for the right product.
Most of the items from the cheating boyfriend collection were lipsticks I was meant to swipe on before kissing him. Lipsticks that would make him go down on me. Lipsticks that would make him incompetent. Lipsticks that would cause him physical damage. One of them was even labeled the Kiss Of Death. Probably shouldn’t have bought that one, but it never hurt to be prepared.
As a test, I plucked out a vibrant red lipstick and slathered my mouth with it. After I gave him the tiniest peck on the lips, his fingers were squeezing my thighs. Brushing against my clit. Unbuttoning my jeans and slipping off my underwear.
“Have I ever old you how fucking hot you are?” he whispered as he left little bites on my neck.
The damn makeup worked. Made him horny for me. Not her. Me.
But by the time he shoved his head between my legs, thrashed his tongue around, and made me orgasm (twice), the red lipstick had faded from my mouth. And once the magic of the makeup was gone, that motherfucker went right back to texting on his phone.
No, he actually answered a phone call from her. Right there in front of me.
“Hey, you,” he said, deepening his voice to sound sexier than he had any right to sound. “No, I’m not busy… Oh yeah? When did you want to go?”
Asshole. I dug through my bag, yanked out the blue lipstick, and slapped it across my lips. Then I leaned over and left a mark against his cheek. Against his jaw. Against the corner of his lips.
That last one must’ve done the trick, because his mouth kept moving, probably to tell her he would have no problem leaving my house and going straight to see her, but no words escaped. He parted his lips a little wider, an attempt to clear his throat, but still no sound.
“What the fuck?” he mouthed, reaching for the bottle of water I’d left on the end table. He chugged it, swallowing as much as he could take, but nothing happened. He was starting to freak the fuck out and it showed.
This could actually be fun…
I wiped the Silent Sapphire lipstick off with the back of my hand, just in time to hear him say, “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.”
He was in the midst of asking me why I was laughing when I started to apply the Immobile Orange lipstick. “It’s okay, baby,” I said. “I’ll make it all better.”
When I pressed my lips against his, he collapsed, his head bumping the corner of the table. I wondered if the collision blurred his vision. Wondered if I looked like her as I straddled him, my groin pressed up against his.
“Are you doing that?” he asked. Now he could move his lips, but he couldn’t move his limbs. “What the hell? What the…?”
I reached for his phone and flipped through the photo gallery. Nudes, nudes, and more nudes. None of mine, even though I’d sent dozens of them over the years. Only Bethany. Her ass reflected in a dressing room mirror. Her tits barely covered by a towel. Her entirely naked body sprawled out in his fucking bed.
No way in hell would I let that happen again.
I rose and sauntered into the kitchen, careful not to lick my lips and dislodge the makeup. Once I had what I wanted, I resumed the straddling position. Unbuckled his belt. Yanked down his pants.
“What the hell are you doing? Get me up. Get me up. She’s only a friend. We only fucked once. I fucking swear.”
I grabbed a chunk of hair to yank his head off the floor, so I could wrap the belt around it and shove it in between his teeth. Keep his lying mouth sealed.
“You hurt me,” I said, voice chirpier than it had been in weeks. “Now I hurt you. It’s only fair.”
I let the knife make contact with his flesh, wondering how different the cool steel felt compared to Bethany’s warm pussy. And as I sawed into the wrinkled skin, I prayed that every slice hurt more than the last.
And then I prayed that the lipstick would last long enough to let me chop off his balls, too.
Article source: thoughtcatalog.com
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