Marked Secrets

11

Amelia

The second I reached home, I slithered on up to my room before my Mother or Father could say a word to me about what happened at the party. Deep down I knew it was only a matter of minutes before one of them barged in, I assumed it would be my Mother.

I assumed correctly.

I already had myself seated on the bed, hands folded waiting for her to give me all she's got. Nothing she could say would top Zoey's cruel words, that was for certain. When my Mother walked in, her eyes were surprisingly not as angry as I envisioned. She shut the door behind herself, pulling my desk chair out and sitting down in it.

"Amelia, I think we need to have a talk," she said first, looking at me with anything but love.

"There's nothing to talk about. Zoey is a bitch," I sneered, shaking my head in disgust at my own sister.

"Now, hold on," my Mother interrupted, raising a hand. "Your sister is not a bitch. You two may be polar opposites, but that does not make her a bitch."

"So, does that make me one?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and shooting her a death glare.

My Mother ignored my question, thus giving me an unspoken answer. "The way you spoke to her today...that was unacceptable."

Standing to my feet in fury, I threw my hands up in the air and yelled. "What the fuck! Did you happen to hear what she said to me?"

"Yes, I did," My Mother retorted. "Thank you though, and there's no need to get all upset. Sit down."

"All upset?" I screamed, chuckling to myself sarcastically. "Screw you."

"That's not a way to talk to someone that does everything and more for you," my Mother said coldly. "Your Father and I put a roof over your head and food in your stomach and you have the nerve to speak this way to me?"

Deep down I knew she was right, which only escalated my anger. "I'd rather be homeless than live here any longer," I said, throwing my closet open and grabbing my backpack.

My Mother quickly came over to me and snatched the backpack from my hands. "No, no. There's no need for all this."

Choosing not to tell her to get out and instead rewording it, I spoke. "Please leave," I requested, sauntering over to the door and holding it open for her. "I need to be alone."

The bogus kindness in my voice was to prevent any further arguing from happening, and to get my Mother far away from me before I blew up again. She clicked her tongue in disgust at me, walking out of my room with my backpack still in her hands. As soon as I shut the door behind her, I flipped the bird and threw myself down on my bed.

My phone vibrated, but I had no energy to look at it after arguing with my Mother so I just let the text message sit. When I turned towards my closet, I noticed a small object laying on the carpet that must have fallen out when I ripped my backpack from its usual spot in a haste. Leaning over to snatch it up, I was surprised to see my paint set. It was just a mini one, the top opened and shut individually to each of the tiny containers of paint. The light blue one was used up the most, since it was my favorite color.

Painting was something I used to do when I was overwhelmed or needed to channel some of the negative thoughts I was experiencing into something creative, though I was always awful at it. I painted the sky most often, or some trees. Simple things that weren't too big of a project and that wouldn't stress me out further. As I eyed the different shades of paint, my lips curled up into a wicked smile, an idea entering my thoughts.