Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I knew my downfall was entertainment for a lot of people. But having to hear it from the mouth of that Bennett jerk has me both seething and feeling humiliated.
I storm into my room and lock the door behind me. I don’t share my room with anyone, thank God. My twin-bed is neatly made and my room is without a speck of dust, spotless. We have a cleaning lady who comes twice a week, but since there’s really nothing to do here at St. Lucas Rehabilitation, I spend my time cleaning every tiny crevice of my room. Cleaning helps keep my mind clear.
I don’t overthink when I’m cleaning.
I’m not riddled with shame or guilt when I’m cleaning.
My eyes flicker around the room like a mad person, looking for something — anything breakable. I’m so angry, I want, no need to break something. Storming into my adjoining bathroom, I only come to a halt when I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Because the bird lost its will to survive. That’s why you remind me of it.
Pale face, red eyes from holding in my tears of fury, and flushed cheeks. Dread consumes me to the point I start to feel nauseous, but I swallow it down.
My long blonde hair is messy and slightly knotted from the breeze, and I run my fingers through the wavy strands. My mother has never allowed me to cut it shorter than my usual waist-length. I used to take great pride in my hair. Long, silky, and naturally wavy. Complete strangers used to compliment me.
But then I remember how Colton had curled my hair around his finger, tugging on it. How he had so easily, so confidently reached out and touched my hair, as if he had every right to do so.
Bitterness fills my lungs and I noisily ransack through my drawers, looking for my toiletry bag. When I first came here a month ago, I was allowed nothing, except the few clothes in my bag. No electronic devices and nothing sharp was allowed.
But then after speaking with Dr. Bailey for three weeks, she was assured that I wasn’t suicidal. So some restrictions were slowly lifted. Two days ago, I was allowed to keep a nail clipper and a tiny pair of scissors for my personal grooming use.
I pick up the black scissors lying in the bottom of my toiletry bag. My heart slams into my chest, almost painfully. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I can still feel his warm breath on my cheek, as he spoke — taunting me. He soiled my hair by touching it. He sullied something I used to take great pride in. The only thing I used to think was beautiful about me.
Colton Bennett has tarnished the only good thing that was left in me. With his reckless words and careless touch.
It was a dead, fallen sparrow. You’re a dying, fallen princess. Weak prey in a world filled with dangerous beasts.
Bringing the sharp tip to my hair, I saw through the blonde strands. I don’t allow myself to overthink my actions.
Venom slithers through my veins like acid, coiling under my flesh and festering inside my pores. My breathing lurches in my throat, and my body shudders with a painful sob.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
I snip through my hair, carelessly.
My father’s voice echoes through my ears. You’re leaving tonight. Get changed, pack your bag and get the fuck out of my sight, Riley.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
I can still hear Jasper’s mocking. You’ve fallen so low, you can’t even crawl back up. Look around you, Riley. You are a joke now.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
You’re sick, my mother had said, with disgust in her voice.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
The scissors drop from my hand, clattering on the counter. Hair fills the sink, and some has fallen on the bathroom floor. My heart palpitates and there’s a dangerous tremor in the pit of my stomach. But I push the thought away.
Gone is my pretty waist-length hair. It’s choppy and uneven, the length of it just below my chin now. Something in the back of my head tells me to fix it, to make myself look presentable. To cut through the jagged wild parts and make it look even.
I can almost picture my mother’s disapproving glare and my father’s scathing look. A month ago, I would have bent over backward to do anything to please them.
“Not so pretty anymore, huh?” I whisper to myself, still staring at my reflection.
I push away from the sink and walk back into my bedroom. Diving under the covers, I curl in my bed and close my eyes.
Right now — for the first time, I feel free.
Free of my parents’ expectations and the world's rigid standards.
My value will not be judged solely on what they see.
I don’t have to be perfect.
I don’t have to be pretty.
I can just be me…
***
With a quick peek at everyone’s faces, I can tell we’ve all been forced into this. In the art therapy room, we’re all sitting on the lush carpet in a broken circle. The large windows overlook the ocean, and I can hear the waves hitting the rocks. The more I listen to it, the easier it is to almost hear a symphony between the two. The waves crashing against the rocks — with pretty hellos and sordid goodbyes.