group chat ➳ l.h. [completed]

o n e

Winnie Hale.

My name is so innocent, so gentle.

It's a name that you would expect to hear from a Sunday school student that wore virgin white dresses that dragged on the floor.

It was a name you would expect to hear from a straight A student that never laid eyes on the letter F since the first grade.

And it was a name you would expect to hear from a girl that had never touched herself in her life.

I laughed to myself silently with my pen pressed to the paper of my journal, because that Winnie Hale is not me; it's not me at all.

You see I don't go to Sunday school, nor do I make straight A's in all of my classes. As for the touching, however, I do a hell of a lot of that.

But back to the more important picture, my mother pressures me a ton to try harder in school. And I do, only when I'm not imagining her husband, that is.

I met him just two years ago when I was only fifteen and hit that blue eyeshadow stage that I wished I could have skipped through like most of the fifteen year olds now that went straight to eyeliner and thongs.

That was me now, the eyeliner and thongs stage.

The first time I saw him was the day my mothers smile had finally grown after years of its fading, and for that I was grateful, but yet still couldn't help but admire his attractiveness.

The lip ring that was pierced into the corner of his pink lips, the way his dirty blonde hair was pushed up off of his forehead and out of his bright eyes, and the way he looked at me with a dimpled smile was enough for me to grow weak at the knees.

Though it wasn't surprising, for my mother was younger than most of the mothers out there. She had me at sixteen with a man I've never met, and and a man I never wish to meet.

He was a teenage boy that was terrified of the thought of a baby, so he left. Which was understandable from knowing this generation that was so undeniably screwed up.

But my mothers new boyfriend was better than he would ever be. I even remembered him first introducing himself to me. He walked up slowly with a smile and spoke in the most intriguing accent my ears have ever heard. With being an American, hearing an Australian accent was like music to the ears, for it never got old.

He spoke to me like sugar off the tongue, "I'm Luke," I remembered him say, "Luke Hemmings."

My mother took his last name after they had married a year later, and by that point all I had wanted was for his Australian accent to have an off switch.

He would constantly yell at me about grades, to turn my music down, and to stop letting my phone bill raise sky high. So basically, the usual teenage mistakes.

My mother would have been doing the same if not louder, but she was a nurse and worked almost all day and sometimes all night at the hospital delivering babies. A job that didn't create the most comfortable stories at dinner time.

But I only ignored his constant yells by either turning my music up louder, or just ignoring the school books that lay on my desk, never to be touched.

Other things that piss Luke off, which is too many to count, was when I dyed my hair black a few months back. I felt that it made my blue eyes pop just a little more.

And I also starting purchasing tons of leggings instead of jeans.

Reason why? Because I know my step daddy hates them. As in he hates the thought of school boys looking at my backside and legs through the tight black material. Something I knew he looked at from time to time as well, but I just smile at him and walk away with a little more sway to my hips than normal.