𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐨. Model, actress, celebrity. At the age of 22 Gianna already has everything or at least that's what everyone thinks.
But in reality, her life couldn't be more of a mess. Where there's money there's alcohol, where there's pa...
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Every day is the same shit. I get up, brush my teeth, shower, put some clothes on, have breakfast "Something that would give you enough energy not to faint during the day but not something that could make you fat" -that's what my mother would say- and then I leave the house.
That's it.
It's like waking up from a nightmare to then figuring out you are just in another. A vicious never-ending circle of boredom.
"Gianna, are you even listening to me?" My mom asks practically shouting even if she is just on the seat next to me.
"Yes Mom, I am." I wasn't and she knows that but I don't need to listen to know what she is going to ask me.
This question is also part of the never-ending nightmare.
"Then tell me." She taps her nails against the leather seats (a thing she does when she gets frustrated).
"A smoothie Mom, the one in the fridge that said "EAT THIS TODAY" in fucking capital letters." I breathe out tired of doing this every single morning.
Cursing is what I do when I get frustrated as everyone does or at least everyone except Valentina Marino, she is too perfect for that. Cursing? That's not ladylike, a thing she never forgets to remind me of.
"Gianna watch your language, how many times have I told you?" She shakes her head in disappointment.
"Sorry, mom." I roll my eyes and take my phone out of my purse.
For a while, we stay in silence and moments like this sadly barely happen so when they do I welcome them with open arms. Having to listen to my mother 24/7 drains the life out of me so when I have a few seconds of peace I take full advantage of it. Though I must admit that most of the time I spend it thinking about the different ways I could make her disappear... hypothetically speaking, obviously.
"Your dad called me." New record, five whole minutes.
"He did?" I ask surprised.
If there's someone who hates my mom more than I do that would be my dad. Must be the one thing we have in common.
"He wanted to know if you were going to have lunch with him this Sunday." She tells me as she looks around for something in her brand new overly big purse. "Here."
She hands me a paper with the name of a restaurant and a time.
"Why would Dad call you to invite me for lunch instead of calling me?"
"Maybe because you weren't answering your phone. As usual." Now it's her who takes out her phone at the same time I do.
To my demise she is right, Dad did call me. But who picks up their phone at seven a.m. on a Sunday?
"I will text him to let him know I'm going," I tell her even if I know she doesn't care at all.
My parents have been divorced since I was sixteen. Basically, since I started modeling. It was me entering this world that caused the very unstable mountain of bullshit between them to crumble. My dad didn't want me to model, said that I deserved to have a normal childhood and my mom on the other hand said that same as her I was made for this world. That I couldn't waste all my potential like she wasted hers when she got pregnant with me.
