Messed Up Vita

Chapter Five

   Almost as soon as  my foot step inside, I am crowded with a smothering hug. I brush my step mother off.

   "I hate hugs, Linda" I inform her.

   "I know," she says. "that's why I do it." I roll my eyes, dropping my bag onto the floor. I will never call her "mom" or "mother" or anything of the sort, besides Linda or step mom. She isn't my real mother, therefore not deserving of the title.

   "I have a surprise!" Inside my head, I cringe. Her surprises are usually horrible girly things, that involve make-overs or more furniture inside my bedroom that's bright pink or white.

   "What?" I say, lacking excitement. She doesn't seem to notice.

   "We're painting your room!" she squeals, pointing to a can on the floor. On the outside, sat a very candy-colored pink. My jaw drops open, and I shake my head.

   "Nuh- uh," I say, stepping between her and the can. "No way. You're not painting my room."

   "But you'll love it!" Linda says, clasping her hands together. "I had the same color when I was your age. I loved my room."

   "Well, this is my room!" I snap. "It's mine, and it's staying gray." Don't get me wrong, here. My room wasn't a depressing sort of gray, but a comforting and cozy storm-color. Pictures that I took hung all over it, anyways. I had a purple bed sheet and a white thin desk. It was perfect the way I had it, and no stupid pink colors were going to hassle with it.

   "But Ellie," she says, shoulders dropping in disappointment.

   "My name," I scowl. "Is Eliot. And I hate pink. My room is gray, and it's going to stay like that. It's my space and I can do whatever I want with it."

   "You don't need to be rude, young lady!" Linda snaps. "I only wanted to please you with a surprise!"

   I throw my hands back in frustration. "I know, but I've told you time and time again I hate pink, I don't want a boyfriend to make kissy faces at, I don't like makeup, and I absolutely don't need my only thing truly belonging to me messed up by whatever you want to put in it!"

   Silence drops between us. I stare at her, and suddenly feel guilty. "Look, Linda-''

   "Save it!" she snaps back at me for once. "I'll take the stupid paint back, then. I'll tell them my step-daughter doesn't appreciate the mother that actually stays around with her!"

   I take in a shaky breath, my eyes suddenly becoming blurry with tears. She'd crossed the line, and she knows it. 

   "You," I say slowly. "did not just say that about my mother."

   She opens her mouth pleadingly, but I interrupt. "I will love her spit more than I would ever love you!" I push past her and slam my door shut, wishing I had a lock to keep her out.

   I'm not usually the one to cry, and I try not to. I sniffle and wipe my eyes on my jacket, cursing at myself. Now I'll be a mess when Dad gets home, and he'll wonder what went on a few moments ago. I stare at my pictures, the sunlight hitting them perfectly. 

   There was one of Jayden, smiling that crazy huge smile of his. His hair was whipped back by the wind, and he was on a swing set like a little kid. That was two years ago, when I started to get into photography. The first one I'd took of him myself, and I loved that one. It sat above my bed. I look to another on the side. This one, in black and white, was of a simple flower that I thought looked beautiful. Another was me, but Jayden insisted on taking it. The lighting was off and a tiny bit blurry, but you could see the details in my face. Dark eyes, dark hair, and sort of paled skin. I was in mid-sentence, my mouth revealing the tips of my teeth and a slight crinkle in my nose, telling Jayden to put my expensive camera down. My mother bought it for me, and it was special.

   It still was, because it's my only camera. But it was a good Sony one with clear photos, so I kept it.

   I lay down on my bed, falling face first into the pillows. I just sit there, trying not to suffocate in the puffiness. Oddly, it calms me down. Maybe slows down my breath or something, but it helps when I'm crying or about to.

    Or maybe it mentally snaps me together.

   I sit up straight in my bed, wiping my eyes slowly. I wasn't going to cry about what my stupid stepmother said about my actual mother. 

   My parents were divorced, and my mother was very angry at my dad for their finances, and how they were to take care of me. Lots and lots of screaming later, she moved to a state away, where every few weeks I go spend the weekend. It really sucks, because I hate to admit it, but I would rather stay there then at my dad's. It has nothing to do with favor over anybody, but I can't stand my step mother, and my mom's house is awesome, I think, personally.

   My mom is an artist, so her apartment is kind of messy. But I don't mind, because the paintings make up for it. It's almost a cliche' artist's house. She has sheets all over the floors, her paintings are hanging up everywhere, and it's very hipster-like, just like her.

   She has thick brown hair she keeps in a braid down her back, and thick rimmed black glasses just like mine. She wears makeup, but it hardly looks like she is. She's small and slender, like me, but way more bold and bright. She wears yellow and white, colors like that. All her paintings have some kind of nature in the background, because she knew I loved it. I did, and I loved every single one of her paintings, too.

   They weren't abstract paintings. They were real, very detailed ones. Some times she does splotches with different colors in them, but you could always tell what she was painting. I have two of hers in my room, which hang there lifelessly but beautifully against my gray wall.

   I turn my head to look at them. One of them is two necklaces overlapping each other, gleaming in the dull light of the painting. I had one of those real necklaces in my jewelry box. I'd owned it before they got divorced, but my dad didn't know either of us had them. My mom had the other matching one. They were a gold-colored heart shaped pendant with a gold string. Simple, yet I loved it. Nowadays I keep it in the jewelry box, in fear of it will get lost or ruined. I wear it only on special occasions, which weren't a lot.

   I look at the other painting she made me. It was a camera with a guitar behind it- my guitar. She had asked to borrow it, and I curiously let her, knowing she was horrible with musical stuff. Sure enough, two days later (only!) she gave me the painting and guitar back. That's when I got my camera, too. For my birthday.

   I stand up from my bed and rub my sore eyes again, standing in front of my mirror attached to my vanity table that I hardly use. I stare at my reflection. Puffy eyes are gone, but my hair was messy from my pillow. I smooth it down, and stare at my face. Brown- almost black hair-, freckles, pale skin that forever haunts me, and dark brown eyes. I've always wanted gray eyes. I have no idea why, but I did. It seemed more beautiful and would match my face perfectly. Brown eyes only added darkness to it. I've always argued with myself what color my eyes were. They weren't charcoal brown, but not hazel either. Sort of. . .normal. Brown eyes and that's it.

  I look at myself as I grab the ends of my hair, staring at it. The tips come down to the end of my ribs, long and silky. I estimate how long it is, and suddenly think of all those kids with cancer. And that donation thing. . . Locks of Love? I wonder if we have one here, or what I would look like with short hair. Never have I had hair shorter than my ribs before, even as a child.

   I think of the sad little girls with no hair, sitting sadly in a chemo-therapy room with a tube attached to their arms. I had a second cousin with cancer, and she died from it. It was cancer in her veins, and it didn't last long before it took control of her whole body. I didn't really know her, but I knew she was a year younger than me. My mom has pictures of her smiling with her bare head, and I thought she was beautiful. 

    I shake my head and turn my gaze away from the mirror. Locks of Love? Short hair for once in my life? I don't know how I would look. I lay on my bed again, bouncing faintly on the mattress. I close my eyes and stare at the ceiling, my arms crossed over my stomach.