[ 𝙇𝘼 𝙉𝙊𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙇𝙂𝙄𝙀 ] ᯼ ✔

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈.

T/W: MENTIONS, IMPLICATIONS, AND REFERENCES → ABORTION

°°- Present Lie, Future Truth -°°

   She could not surmise she was accomplishing a mission she vouched to herself she would not even deduce of. Senseless of all the thousands of Euros and hours expended to her own fertility, she could not have further fathom why on earth was she inside this building. The thickset and bittersweet air immobilized her skin as she reclined on that familiar blue plastic reclining chair, her hands tucked into her abdomen as she divulged the absurdity of reassurance to herself. 

   It emerged as an instant before that she was moaning her vocal cords to its climax in the comforts of her companion's hailing warmth. Within a prudent territory where there was a tenderness to thaw her from the lonesome and cynical thoughts that resided in her mentality.

   Parched signs of moisture blazed her cheeks from the route of her orifices, lazily applied makeup virtually ridden with solemnity as it resembled much more of unkempt abstract labor than of her established hasty art. She relished in the wonders of cosmetics and its leverage to a fundamental self-image, she had always felt glorious whenever she had a brush in her grasp. She was the master of her own craft, she was the wielder of her sword, the opponent prevailing as her insecurities.

   She had never been satisfied with her appearance, never one microsecond she had felt beautiful or comfortable in her own physique without the solace of maquillages. She masked a façade every day of her vitality, she manifested an image of a potent woman who had a substantial amount of courage to dominate any obstacle she would ever contemplate her intuitions and endurance upon. She strived to be the perfect role model to all, all genders, ages, ethnicities, and other characteristics a human may have. Nevertheless, underneath the paint, there is always a blank canvas. A bare foundation that had their unpretentious origins. 

   An unclad exterior, a desolate crevice within their heart. She had only conceded her insecurities to a sole person in her entire lifetime; disclosure that was obtained from the bed of her soul she would soon repent of, heeding in disloyalty.

   She had never anticipated someone as vastly as she had with Gigi. She had never yearned for the touch of someone as she did with her in every breathing trice of all eternity. She had never sung melodies of tremendous elation for anyone else. She had never spoiled another as much as she did with her lover. She had never held someone so close to her heart, never thought of letting go. She had never bent below on her knees to kiss her soles as she fulfilled with that grandiloquent Scandinavian. She had never carried so much baggage in her unbroken life but never exhibited any whiffs of fatigue or weariness. 

   She had never endured such satisfaction, as she did whenever their fingers interweaved.

   But at the current time, perhaps, every single aspect of reality she had previously believed in was a lie? What if there was no authentic love? What if all their relationship was built above was by the tolls of prosperity and stardom? What if she had only capitalized on her for her equity and renowned label? What if she had never even loved her in the first place? What if it was moreover overdue to arrive heretofore from the illusion she had created for the both of them?

   “Nicolette Doll? Is there a Nicolette Doll here?”, a say arose from a respectable scope to the French's earshot. Her witnesses directly commandeered by the eliciting vocalist, a woman in a medical consultant's apparel, her elderly complexion framed by an intelligent appearing pair of glasses, peering through the means of an accessible threshold that enlightened to a visually blinding cavity.