To Anyone Listening

Ugly

His finger plunged into my sternum, nearly knocking me backward onto the countertop. Spit flew from his mouth with each jeer and his eyes pierced through me in a similar way I feared his finger might. My toes had gone numb. Partly because I was barefoot on the cold counter I had been placed on and partly because my legs were locked out of fear- fear of his shouting and fear of being knocked over. 

I must've only been five or six years old. Dad was at work and Mom was getting ready in the bathroom. Mom defined beauty; I wanted nothing more than to look like her when I grew up. Sometimes I would sit on the edge of her bed and watch her piece together an outfit. She'd hold up a shirt or two to her body and peer into the sliding closet mirrors. After a moment, she would turn to me, asking what I thought looked best with whichever pants or skirt she was wearing. After giving my input, she'd always turn back around to face the mirror, hold both options up again, groan a little and say whatever, I guess I will go with this one today, then walk back into her closet to piece together the rest of her outfit together. I always thought it was funny when she would put two different shoes on to decide which one matched her outfit best. Sometimes, she would do a little strut across the bedroom and then stop in front of the mirror with her hand on her stuck-out hip. I found myself trying shoes on in a similar manner from time to time.

Mom had just purchased a new pair of black, leathered boots that rose to just below her knees. It was the first time I had seen her wear boots like these ones. As she was getting ready in the bathroom, I leaned against the door frame and examined her outfit with her new boots. I studied how each element of her outfit worked together- the stacked necklaces, the bracelets, her tan pants and black turtleneck shirt, and her new boots. I made mental notes to ensure I'd remember what makes an outfit look good. As I studied her boots some more, I giggled to myself a little. Her boots reminded me of the boots I had seen farmers wear in the movies. Looking back, they absolutely did not look like farming boots as they were quite elegant and had a silver strapped buckle around the ankle, however, at the time, they resembled farmer boots to me because of their length.

She noticed me covering my mouth with my hand as I giggled some more. Mom was holding a curling iron in her hands and had a strand of hair wrapped around it. She was staring into the mirror but kept glancing down at me. Smirking and rolling her eyes a little, she asked me, "Shaela Dawn. What are you laughing about?"

I giggled again, not sure how to tell her of the silly thoughts I was having about her "farmer" boots. Mom set her curling iron down to grab the next piece of her hair. She laughed a little.

"What is so funny? Just tell me" she playfully pleaded.

I took a deep breath to stop laughing.

"Okay, okay. I'll tell you." 

I pushed myself off the doorway and walked to the other side of her. touching her boots as I walk around her and leaned against the counter.

"It's just that you kind of look like a farmer in those boots, they look silly on you." 

I giggled a little more, shrugged my shoulders, and covered my mouth with my hands again as I squinted up at her, waiting for her to laugh with me. Instead of laughing, she just smiled a little with tight lips, rolled her eyes, and furrowed her brows slightly still looking into the mirror. She looked at me without turning her head.

"Shaela..."

Adjusting her stance, she continued to curl the last piece of hair before setting the curling iron down. She ran her fingers over her bangs and straightened her necklaces, keeping her focus on the mirror. Pulling away from the mirror and smiling a little, she said, "that's not a very nice thing to say, I like these boots."