Just The Girl

Chapter 1

D A H L I A

Soft wind grazing through the roughness of my cheeks, the curtains swaying against my fingertips as I look towards my reflection in the mirror not so far on my right, leaning against my room's white wall. The sight of dark hair that came mid-length had greeted me, round frames resting on top of a nose bridge, fare skin, and a tight lip smile. But what had caught my attention was the soulless gaze racking at the sight of my body from head to toe.

"What a poor thing..." I was, in fact, a living testament of what numbness looks like personified. I was no longer living, I'm just surviving.

"Dahlia, let's go or you'll be late for school!" And that was my cue to stop staring.

Shaking my head, I then headed towards my bedroom door, escaping the comforts from the pains the outside world could give me, had given me, is still giving me. Whatever. Then went out the house to where mom had already started warming up the car, not even batting an eyelash to dad who was busy staring at the morning news.

Same old, same old. The government is still a pain in the ass. People starving. Crime rates are increasing. "Nothing is ever getting better." I heard my dad muttering before I went out the front door.

The government or my mental health? Wasn't sure which of the two my dad was talking about.

"Are you sure you haven't left anything? We can't go back to the house once you do, Dahlia. Traffic is going to be a pain in ass in a later or so."

Blonde hair flowing down exactly at the tip of her shoulders, a slender build just enough for a 45-year-old mother, skin a fair shade of tan, that distinct sound of her accent rolling off her tongue indicated that she was born and raised here in North Carolina. A star contrasts to my father's still improving English, hair as dark as the night, skin as pale as the snow, Chinese blood running through a course in his veins.

Mom fell in love at first site with my dad at the age of 20 in the middle of her history class in Brimm Chester College here in North Carolina, my dad was doing one of his lectures on Asian involvement during the 1932 American War. Dad was a good 10 years ahead of her, and her professor—not an appropriate circumstance to begin with. So, mom had let him go, continued to admire him from afar without expecting anything.

But two years after graduating college, both had met again when my dad went on a trip to Bali, Indonesia, which mom was also having a vacation there with some of her girlfriends at the same time. Let's just say a little bit of accidental bumping into, one shirt was covered in OJs and the other in diet coke, a bunch of whispered apologies being thrown from left to right, my mom re-introducing herself, and dad finally remembering where he had seen her.

And then there came me. A product of their buddying and beautiful, simple relationship.

Growing up, I knew I had a weird face, a distinct beauty that sometimes I would catch strangers staring at me for far too long to be considered rude. Although I inherited my father's dark hair, his pale skin, and the crescent shape of his eyes—I had my mother's tall nose, small body, the freckles on her cheeks, and her native green eyes.

I wouldn't say my facial chemistry was not up to par, wasn't mixed beautifully and not properly shaped in all edges, but I never liked the way my eyes would slope down and how my mouth was too small, or how my cheeks were so round it made me look like I had a big head, or how I look like I came out from an Alvin and the Chipmunks movie.

Growing up, as soon as I started realizing the downside of owning this face, I started doing everything I could just to get rid of whatever excess fat I had on my face. I tried massaging it, going on a diet, even exercising just to reach a specific weight. But nothing changed. All I got from the endless effort had ended up making me look like skin and bones, but with a perfectly healthy, fat head.