𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 & 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐲 🩰 | [COMPLETED]

x. you don't love me.

♚♚♚

I hear a rustling from across the room. A bar of orange light shines against the blue tile ceiling. It's still today...

Then, I hear another voice grumble in the corner. I sit up and see Mommy dropping my suitcase to the floor. The noise makes a loud thud, causing me to flinch.

"Mommy," I start. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, Julie. You're up," she replies bitterly.

"Yeah, I am. What are you doing?"

"'Yeah, I am. What are you doing?'" She mocks with a low voice. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I'm trying to be a good Mommy and unpacking your crap."

I gulp, immediately feeling guilty.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," I correct myself.

"Well, you never really are, aren't you? I've told you for years to sit up straight whenever you're sitting, standing, doing anything! You're a ballerina! Can you not COMPREHEND how important that is?" Mommy rants.

"Are you blaming me for this?"

"Who ELSE can I blame? This is YOUR body. This is what you get for not listening to me! You NEVER listen to me! And now look how much money we have to spend with the surgery and the camp. The ER trip alone is going to cost us almost two-thousand dollars. We're not a bank."

Every word of that sentence is like a stab to the heart. My lip quivers, a lump in my throat starts forming, choking me. Soon, my eyes gloss over with tears, and I look away from her in shame.

"Oh, Jesus," Mommy scoffs again. "Are you seriously giving me that crying crap, Julie? You know crying won't solve anything about this."

"Why are you so angry with me?" I hoarsely yell. "Are you mad that we can't post anything on the channel because I can't dance right now?"

"You see? You're not sorry. If you were, you wouldn't be talking back to me like this! You wanted to be a prima ballerina? I encouraged you. You wanted to go to this really expensive school? I helped get you in. I payed your tuition. Have you ever even considered about what I wanted? Is it a crime to want to share my daughter's achievements to the world?" Mommy throws her hands in the air. "And who KNOWS how long recovery is? You won't be able to dance for months! We'll lose sponsors! We'll lose subscribers!"

"You don't know that—"

"I DO! That's why I'm angry. You wasted all of it. Oh, who am I kidding? You don't care. You don't even love me—"

"I do love you!"

"No, you don't. You don't even appreciate what your daddy and I are trying to do for you every day. You don't even think about it."

She angrily bursts out of the room. Stupid tears stream down my cheeks. I fold my legs and lay my forehead on my knees; curling up my body. I let out a small, repressed scream for a few seconds; liberating myself. My shoulders and back feel lighter, I'm releasing tension I didn't even know I had in them.

Then, I stop out of fear of being heard.