He was the moon, and I was the sun.
He was the darkness, and I was his light.
He was chaos, I was his calm.
Yet, everyone seemed to think that it was the other way around.
Actually, no. Nobody thought anything because there was no way in hell th...
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Cleopatra Saint Claire ☆
My head throbs painfully, the aftermath of skipping last night's meal. Stomach cramps grip me mercilessly as I slowly open my eyes and glance out the window.
Rain taps gently against my bay window, a common occurrence in Alton Lake.
Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle towards the bathroom. In the mirror, my tired reflection stares back at me, unchanged since the summer.
I've become more darker-skinned thanks to the endless sunny days in Hawaii. My eyebrows remain black and thick, with a scar on my left one. My almond-shaped eyes are still as brown as ever.
My cheekbones remain high and well-defined. My nose is petite and upturned, sitting above full, two-toned lips.
I've inherited my mom's sharp facial features, and as I look at myself, I can't help but acknowledge: I'm beautiful.
I remove my bonnet, which had been covering only one side of my head, and toss it onto my bed. The curls I had styled into my 4c hair over the summer have now been replaced by long, knotless braids.
After brushing my teeth, I wash my face before slipping into the shower. Grabbing my loofah, I lather up with lavender soap, scrubbing away the sweat and dirt from my body.
Once I finish showering, I dry myself off, apply lotion, and then get dressed in my school's uniform. The skirt hugs my waist nicely, accentuating my shape, while the blazer drapes elegantly over my body.
After a quick application of mascara and lip gloss, I grab my backpack and head downstairs.
In the kitchen, I find my mom sipping her coffee and scrolling through her phone, likely checking her emails. She's a lawyer who deals with a lot of criminals. I've overheard that she's taken on the case of a mafia boss, but she's tight-lipped about the details.
"Hi, Mother," I greet as I enter the kitchen. She looks up from her phone and studies me with a frown. "What did I tell you about walking around the house in your white socks?" she asks, annoyance evident in her voice.
I roll my eyes and grab my shoes from next to the couch before returning to the kitchen. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and add some milk. "Good morning, Cleopatra," she replies, her tone chilly.
In case it wasn't clear, my mom and I don't have the best relationship. She's very strict about my education, the way I dress, walk, speak—basically everything I do and say. Saying we're not close would be an understatement, though we do have our own unique dynamic.
My dad waltzes into the kitchen, flashing me a cheeky grin. "Hello, Father," I say in a fake British accent.
"Daughter," he greets, matching my energy, and we both burst out laughing.
