Ladybug [h.s.]

15

Delilah

~~~~~~~~

My father always used to comment on my rosy cheeks, poking at my dimple with his finger and making the scorching wildfire erupt higher. As if they were a signal to my emotions, the pumping of my heart fueling more blood up to my face. Perpetual sunburn. Undeniable childish innocence. I'd hated them for years; frustrated by the inevitable flames. Always hiding behind my palms or ducking underneath the fall of my hair. Anything to avoid somebody noticing; knowing well that would only make things worse. Endless, raging destruction at the hands of my emotions.

My father stopped commenting about them around the same time that he realized I no longer found it a funny joke. I'd stopped giggling and started hiding away, swatting at his hand before it could reach my face. He still smiled when he saw them, and I could watch his eyes bounce from mine to the pink dusting across my cheeks before he would grin. Satisfied, like the purpose of his life was to paint rose petals across the bridge of my nose. As if his entire role as father was to ensure my emotions were always pummeling violently through my veins. He'd notice, and he'd smile as if the world turned upright, but he wouldn't draw my own attention to the lit match that was searing my fingertips.

Stanley only made my hatred for them worse; using the shade of pink as some indicator of how riled up he could get me. Or, of how sexually unsatisfied I could become. A host body for the parasite to sink its teeth into. Mosquito bites, or scar tissue. Pink, but at the cost of discomfort. I would give him the rightful credit of never pointing out when they'd change, but I don't know that he ever saw them in a positive light. Blind to my attempted camouflage. Instead, using the color change as an opportunity to flex his toxicity. Venom pouring into the spaces of my cheeks.

I've hated them for as long as I can remember; not really able to pinpoint the first time I decided they were no longer fun, or cute, or idiosyncratic. They just became a hassle. An embarrassment. But then Harry danced his fingertips across them. Harry wrapped his palms safely around the burning flames without fear of being scarred. He roamed his eyes down the constellation of freckles, down through the fire. Appreciation, and prized honor, and endless, overwhelming gratitude swimming through his eyes as he took them in. As he swiped his paintbrush thumb across the apple of my cheek, covering the pink with some other color. Hiding the shade I'd learned to so deeply despise in order to treasure it for himself. Holding it sacred in his eyes; in his mind. So as not to be tarnished by the gaze of any other person. Personal sanctity.

And then he kissed me.

I don't know that I hate them so much, anymore.

"Delilah Faye, hurry up!" Eleanor's voice floats up the staircase, jolting me away from the mirror. I drop my hand, feeling the sizzle of water on a burner as my fingers leave the curves he'd held onto.

From the moment I stepped into my house last night, I can count on one hand the number of times I've stopped smiling. Endless refrains of our kiss on the motorcycle, or his flying straw wrappers, or bacon, or sausage, or orange juice, singing loudly through my memory. Church choirs or roofer's radios. Music so magically loud no one is immune to succumbing to the melody.

"I'm comin', hold your horses El, jeez." I huff in response, straightening out my skirt and rolling up the sleeve of my blouse.

Eleanor and Dorothy wanted desperately to go to the park, no matter what excuse I tried to dream up. They both knew I didn't have to go into the hospital and nothing I could have said would have gotten them to back off. Especially not after hearing about Stan getting pummeled.