She stood at the bar, curling her hair round her fingers, toying with it until her fingers hurt. She carried on, rubbing the tendrils harder and more frantically, yet retaining her sweet smile.
A guy had once told her she was pretty. Another, that she was cute. She could effortlessly recall the list of endless compliments as easily as they’d rolled off of the tongues of their owners, each one another twist of the knife in the gaping wound she harboured.
Tonight, she held the knife and now it was her turn to use it. And to watch them squirm.