in 300 words, write about deceit.
Deceit: noun; the act or practice of deceiving; concealment or distortion of the truth for the purpose of misleading. To cheat or swindle. Chicanery.
Treachery; your treachery. Everything I had trusted, everything I had believed, was nothing but a clever hoax. A brilliant, underhanded stratagem meant to unhinge me.
Well, as much as I hate facing up to unchangeable facts, I have never been so fooled as this. And it has become my descent; just as you wished it would be, you duplicitous gravedigger.
A ruse, a sham. A finely crafted, delicately orchestrated manifestation of everything I'd always wanted that was just out of reach. How could you have known me so well? How could I have been so blind? I should have known by the scent of your perfume that you would destroy me. "If it seems too good to be true, it probably is," that's what they say, isn't it?
Sitting here, swigging mouthfuls of cranberry juice and vodka, a lot heavier on the vodka than usual, I realize that my entire life has come down to one word. Dispensable. Each step I have taken, every hurdle I so casually flung myself over. Not one single night gone to waste, nothing shy of every last day, it all comes down to what I gave to you. I remember standing in your kitchen, the lights dimmed and the candles lit and me uncorking that bottle of, your favorite, Le Pergole Torte; and I remember the way the waves of your burgundy dress, like the brilliant ruby red of the wine in my hand, spilled around you on the charcoal marble floor. From on your knees across the room, with the candlelight falling over you and the depth-less ink of night beyond the window, you told me everything. Wasn't that what you'd called it, darling? Everything?
Words are subject to perspective. Perspective is subject to what you choose to believe. Tell me, what can a mistress of illusion believe in? In the end you have nothing. I have nothing.
Everything, all things, are dispensable. You and I, and everything we could have been.