Series: The Un Series by Izzy Sweet
Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
With a vicious yank, she forces me to spin back around to face my mirror.
“It’s a mess, Alena,” she snarls as she rips the elastic from my hair, taking a few chunks with it. “All you’ve done is create more work for me!”
Stabbing her fingers into my hair, she yanks them down, ripping more roots from my scalp as they snag on the knots she created.
“And on this day of all days!” she complains, her voice growing louder with every word.
Making my eyes go wide to keep my tears at bay, I watch the tight, angry expression on her face transform into one of fury.
My chest aching, I snap my eyes to the pictures tucked into the gold frame of my mirror. Pictures of Daddy and me. Happy, with smiles on our faces.
The pain I can take. I’m used to it.
Every day, she finds some way to hurt me.
It’s her disappointment and hate that makes me cry.
Why doesn’t she love me?
Is it because I’m an idiot?
Will she love me if I become smarter? If I somehow find a way to make myself better?
If I become like her? Never making a mistake and doing everything perfectly.
I love her. Even when she hurts me, I love her.
Why am I not like her?
Is it because I’m not beautiful? Because I look like Daddy? With my pale skin and dark hair?
I have her blue eyes, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.
If my hair was blonde like hers, would she be able to love me? Would I be worthy?
Should I dye my hair to make her happy?
“Stupid little brat… You can’t even get this right. What kind of little girl can’t do their own hair?” my mother nearly shouts as she picks up my brush and roughly pulls it through my hair.
Intentionally or unintentionally grinding the bristles into my scalp.
“If today wasn’t so important…” she warns.
Grabbing my hair up in one hand, she furiously brushes my ends.
I think half of my hair comes out, falling upon the shoulders of my dress.
But I bite the inside of my cheek harder, tasting blood.
Each pull of the brush making her angrier, my mother tears into me. “Why did I get stuck with such an idiot for a daughter? What have I done to deserve this? Am I being punished for something?”
The next couple of pulls of the brush are so hard I wobble on my feet. Out of instinct, I reach out and grab the edge of my vanity to keep from falling over.
My mother suddenly stops and holds the brush up.
I look back at the reflection of her face in alarm.
Her eyes flash and her knuckles go white around the handle.
She’s so angry with me, she’s shaking.
“I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do,” she exhales harshly, as if she’s struggling to find breath. “It’s you. You who ruins everything.”
My teeth cut deeper into my cheek.
The coppery taste flooding my mouth somehow soothing.
My heart calms and I know I can take her hit without flinching or crying like a baby.
“My darlings! Where are you?” Daddy calls out, his deep, booming voice echoing downstairs in the foyer. “We’re going to be late!”
Mother stiffens and glances over her shoulder.
When my father’s footsteps begin to thump up the stairs, she makes a sound of disgust in her throat.
Tossing my brush away, she releases my hair and snatches up my hand. “We’ll finish this discussion later.”
She yanks me away from the mirror, and I trip and stumble, my head spinning, before I get my feet under control.
Having no patience, she drags me up to my door and stops.
Shoulders straightening, spine stiffening, she takes a moment to collect herself and soften her expression before finally opening my door.
“We’re ready, honey!” she calls out to my father, her voice so syrupy sweet it makes my teeth ache.
Without sparing me a glance, she tugs me into the hall.
My father huffs. “It’s about time.”
“I’m sorry, we had a little hair emergency,” my mother apologizes as her hand squeezes painfully around mine, warning me not to contradict her.
Stopped on the landing in the middle of the staircase, staring down at his phone, my father bobs his head in understanding. “Now we can’t have that.”
“Of course, we can’t,” my mother agrees, her smile tightening for a split-second.
Wearing a black suit and shoes so polished I can see some of his reflection in them, my father is dressed in what he usually wears for Mass. The only change being the white rose blossom pinned close to his heart.
When he looks up and smiles at us, his eyes warming, all the sadness and anxiety inside me melts away.
I swear he’s the most handsome man on earth.
Even more handsome than Prince Charming.
Tucking his phone into his pocket, my father spreads his arms wide. “There’s my beautiful girl.”
I tug on my arm, my feet itching to run to him.