How to Paint Our Skies

How to Stop Being Vanilla

Dear Fin,

   No greetings. Let’s just get straight to the point, I . . . I need this. I need to find out where you stopped loving me. I know it’s somewhere in my mind, but my memories are all knotted together like a tangled string, and the answer I crave is hidden carefully among the twisted line. I just need to unknot it, to detangle it, to untwist it. Then I’ll know the truth, then I’ll know you, then I’ll know me. Then . . . well, then I’ll just know. I need to know.

    I wish you’re here to help me.

     Encounter Number Three:

    My mother was glaring at me, her eyes contempt, as if the sight of me was worse than swimming in acid. I couldn’t find it in myself to blame her, just glimpsing my reflection was enough to make me flinch and shudder . . . on first glance, no one would’ve ever guessed that I was my mother’s daughter.

     You remember my mother, don’t you? I’d be shocked if you had forgotten, everyone knew my mother.  It was impossible to forget her because; well . . . she was extraordinarily beautiful. So shockingly gorgeous with her corn silk hair, glowing hazel eyes, porcelain skin and with a figure that was much nicer than mine even though she had given birth to three children. Not to mention that she was probably the nicest woman in town, but how could someone not be nice when they had the perfect family?

    And then I was born.

    I’m sure when I was a baby, I was dotted and adored just as much as my siblings, but when it became clear that I wasn’t going to be as pretty as the rest of them . . . well, I was forgotten. Or rather, set aside. My mother wanted the perfect family and an ugly, untalented daughter would never fit the image. And as awful as that sounds, I’ve never blamed her for it, after all everyone knew my family and I fit the role well as the forgotten shadow looming the background.

    But here we were, regardless, at that small bridal boutique on Main Street. I was standing in front of the mirror, trying on my bridesmaid dress and I could see it in all their eyes, but especially my mother’s, that I looked absolutely hideous.

    My eyes locked onto the mirror and I tried to choke down tears. Of course, I would be the only blemish in the otherwise perfect wedding. Green, when the dress was first selected, seemed like such a wonderful choice; it set off my pale skin and hazel eyes and brown hair. But now, all I looked like was a giant-

    “Olive,” Jeanine (my eldest sister, who took after my mother’s looks. She was the one getting married) said. “She looks like an olive!”

     I felt my cheeks burst into flames. Of course, I messed up the simple task being a bridesmaid: wearing a dress, looking nice but not prettier than the bride and standing on the altar. “I’m s- sorry, sis-ssy.”

    I had used my childhood nickname for her, in hopes of calming her down, but she still scowled furiously. But that wasn’t shocking to me, Jeanine had always been (in the nicest sense of the word) volatile, and arranging a wedding was making her even more so. “Well, you can’t very well come looking like that.”

    Of course, she wanted me to step out of being a bridesmaid. I wasn’t surprised, again. Besides, I’d be happy to drop out; having a room of people staring at me wasn’t exactly great for my social anxiety. The only reason she had asked me in the first place was because her best friend’s cousin’s niece’s neighbour’s veterinarian’s daughter whom she once met at a party was unavailable, plus my dad recommended it.  Out of everyone in my family, my dad was the only person who seemed to think I belonged. “Of-f co-course, sis- Je-Jeanine, I don’t wa-want t-to be a bur-bu-burden.”