Mature. Viewer Discretion is advised.
*The people inside of this work are FACE-CLAIMS. This has no correlation to any IRL individual.*
*This is messy plot. Made when I was a teen. Beware.*
The story of a young woman who finds her style, self worth...
"Come, as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. As a friend, as a friend, as an old memoria..." ♫ Come As You Are by Nirvana. ✰ TW : Brief non-consensual touching.
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2010
"Alice!"
When I heard the voice of my retched, evil mother beckon my name from my seat in the corner of my bedroom, I froze in place like a statue, dropping the nail file from my fingertips onto the desk with a clatter.
"Oh, crap!" I quickly sat up straight and ripped the headphones out of my phone and ears like lightning, reached down to the floorboard by my heater, and shoved it inside for safe keeping.
That was what you had to do when you were nineteen, a freshman in college, and you weren't allowed to have a freakin' phone.
I was practically Amish-not that there was anything wrong with being Amish, but I was leaning more toward wanting to be.. as far away from Amish as possible?
Yeah, I resonated more with the idea of being a stripper than being amish, and that said a lot if you knew anything about my family or me.
"Alice Anderson, get down here right now!"
"Coming!" I shouted back to my mother in the most polite voice I could've as I put the board back in place, and quickly rushed out of the room, gulping down my nervousness.
I knew exactly what she was calling me down there for.
I messed up big time.
I mean, could you really blame me? College was the most stressful and boring thing on god's green earth. I despised anything and everything school-related.
But, god forbid that I got a bad grade.
I should've known that even in college, she was gonna be riding my butt about getting straight A's.
I walked down the stairs of my house with a soft sigh, ready to be yelled at or scolded, and turned the corner to the kitchen.
My mother was standing there by the dishwasher, her long black hair and intimidating scowl accompanied by her ironed, pressed, satin suit that she wore nearly every day of her life. She sipped her cup of coffee and I stood there nervously inside the middle of the kitchen, my hands behind my back like a servant waiting for their next task.
I hate this.
Placing the cup of coffee on the counter, she very slowly crossed her arms. Her eyes were scanning my attire like she usually did, to judge me or tell me I was being "slutty." But, if you asked me? It was hard to be "slutty" when she didn't let me wear skirts or dresses or anything revealing for that matter.
I hardly thought a sweater and plain jeans were slutty, but hey, maybe if I tried hard enough, I could make it that way one day.
"Your professor called me to tell me that he's worried about you not being on pace to graduate." She quipped, her eyes boring into mine with that same passive aggressive stare that I just loved so much.
