What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Anne Marie ft. Shania Twain - Unhealthy.
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"MUM." I MUTTER, rushing to her and engulfing her in the biggest, tightest hug I can manage. Her long, pink scalloped dress temporarily reminds me of bubblegum.
She immediately wraps her hands around me and starts sobbing into my neck like I've just been released from prison.
"Are you okay, baby?"
"Yes..." But she doesn't need my answer. She's already concluded how I must be in her head.
Her head which she shakes vigorously in the hollow of my neck like her world is ending. "What happened to you, Alaina? Why did I have to hear it from the newspapers and from your best friends?" She asks me, briefly letting me go to hold my cheeks in her palms.
She's scanning my face roughly with tears in her eyes. Your alcoholic of a mama. The last time I saw her this frantic was the day we left my dad's house. Even then, she didn't want to leave him. Love sucks. And I don't like seeing my mum like this. It makes me sad.
"Mum, please stop crying." I wipe her tears with my palms. "I'm fine. See?" I gesture towards my body with my eyes. "Please, just stop crying." I hug her again, feeling my eyes well up with tears of mine.
"What did he do to you?" She asks me.
"W-what?" I know what she's asking about but I don't know what to say. I wasn't expecting them today, talk more of this late, and that's why I prepared myself mentally for their visit tomorrow. Right now, I'm a pile of nothing but nerves, with a rushing pulse.
She pushes me gently from her body and lightly grips my chin, turning my head to the sides to inspect my cheeks.
I know she's looking for the tell-tale signs of Mr. Ash's hands. But they're not there anymore, it's been weeks.
"I was expecting you guys tomorrow. Why are you here today?" I query, my words muffled through my puckered lips because of her grip on my face.
"I was being eaten up by fear, baby, so I finally told your grandfather what Amara told me. He immediately ordered Aaron to drive us here; he couldn't wait." She lets me go and drifts her eyes to the double staircase where Mr. Ash is quietly standing on the right flight he loves using, looking down on all of us.
It's wrong to comment, but he's looks so good up there, with the perfect standing posture, and eyes which are screaming, 'oh, stop it with the theatrics already.' He looks like a shirtless king. Yeah, did I mention he is shirtless? Well, he is, and it's not helping...anything. His chest tattoo mocks me with scriptures about spending eternity in Hell because of my thoughts, also reminding me of that night in his bathroom and that day in his dresser.
Two particular days I want to erase from my memory.
If I could buy brain bleach, I would. I would have used the three dollars I used in getting itching powder to get it instead. But I can't, there's no such thing. And now everytime I catch a glimpse of him or his voice or his scent, I'm teleported back on top that cold counter or on my knees in his closet.
