The Under-Estimated (WATTY AWARDS 2011)

The Under-Estimated

Hope you like it! :)

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Over and over. Everyday. It's my silent undoing. I picked up an end from the towel and wiped my mouth for anything that missed the toilet bowl. The smell of the towel smelled worse than death. I shakily stood up and tried to keep my balance. After the dizzies went away, I tossed the towel in the dirty pile and flushed the toilet, hiding any evidence. Walking a couple of feet to the sink I looked into the mirror above it. I almost shuddered in disgust. No matter how hard I try, I still see the ugly, worthless, depressed and fat 14 year old girl from ages back. I gave my reflection a dirty look and opened the cupboard, pulling out my toothbrush and toothpaste. Doing what you would do every morning, I squeezed toothpaste onto my toothbrush and started scrubbing my teeth. My gums felt raw and they my teeth were yellow. Stupid acids.

After brushing, rinsing, and repeat, my teeth looked almost normal.

'But Mom, everyone does it!' I wrote to her so many years ago.

“Honey...I'm sure not EVERYONE does it.” She once said to me, tears threatening to pour out of her eyes.

'But Mom, they're all so skinny.' I wrote back. Then my father had walked in.

“CATHY!”He screamed at Mom. He may have loved her a lot, but he was a drunk, and abusive. That led to her death.“Is she puking again?!”He said to her, but was looking at me. When he mentioned me, his voice held so much hatred it was unbearable.

'Father! Shut up!' I wrote to him. He laughed an evil laugh.

“What are you gonna do about it?! Tell on me? Oh, that's right, you can't speak!”He said, and swiped my board. “And now you can't write either.”Tears started forming, and my mother bravely squeaked out something to defend me. It may not have been much, and it may have only been a mere whisper, but it made a big difference.

“Richard.”As soon as she said it, his head snapped over to look at her tiny figure. His eyes narrowed.

“You're not going to say anything.”He ordered her. She just bit her lip. This time he swung and hit her right in the jaw.“Whore!”He screamed once again. “Do you hear me?! You're not going to say one word!”

I remember that day like it was yesterday. But that was, in fact, when I was 14. I'm now 23 years old. I've been doing dance and ballet since the day my mother died.

The smell of toothpaste and puke filled the bathroom. Sure I'm used to it, but that doesn't mean it smells good! I sprayed some of my perfume around the room to help the smell disperse.

Quickly and silently, I left the bathroom, not bothering to look back. It's not like I'd miss it. Passing through the hallway, I had pictures of my mother and I hanging around. Also hanging about was random photography I took in my spare time. When I reached my bedroom, I didn't bother to look in the full body mirror. Not until I was suited up. I turned left and headed straight to my wardrobe and pulled out my full ballet dress and flats. Today was rehearsal, and in a couple days was the recital. I had struggled hard for this part. Getting to be the right size was the easiest. Recovering from all the puking was the hardest. Slipping out of my jeans, I noticed something fall out of my back pocket.

“Holly, I just wanted to say, as your father, that I'm sorry.”

I didn't want to read on. But I couldn't stop myself. As my eyes skimmed down the page, a few stray tears escaped.

“I was never a good father. Or husband. And I must apologize. It's my fault your like this. I know you were 14 when your mother passed, but you, nor did anybody, know her like I did. She was a sweet, loving woman who always wanted a kid. I, on the other hand, did not. I'm so sorry for the hatred, and I know there is no way you could ever forgive me for the years and years of damage I did. I came here today to be purposely sent away. I had written this note in advance. This is for your own good. You deserved so much better than me. As usual, I will not be attending your recital.

Love, Dad.”

By the end of the letter/note, I was crying my eyes out. I had to read it over and over again just to make sure I read it correct. This is the most thoughtful my father has ever been. But that doesn't mean I forgive him. I crumpled up the note and threw it onto the corner chair. I peeled of my blood stained baggy shoulder shirt and tossed it in the overflowing hamper. I really needed to do laundry. I unzipped the back and stepped in. Reaching around my body, I zipped it back up. I sat on my bed, slipped the stockings up my legs, and tied on my flats. Time to face the mirror. I saw myself so much different when I was suited up. Looking in the mirror now, I took down my hair and brushed through it. I did my usual make-up for rehearsal and walked out to the kitchen. The house was still a mess from when Dad was here. Oh well. I'll clean later. I grabbed my keys and purse and walked out.

It's funny, actually. In an ironic, sad way, that is. You'd never expect a ballerina to be, hated, tortured, beaten, or anything like that. But, that's exactly me. Usually, people see ballerinas as dancing beauty. Strong. I'm exactly the opposite. Yet, I'm under-estimated.

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Not the end. :)