What makes an angel?
Gorgeous, talented, and intelligent, Angelica Hallosway-Ali battles internal struggles in her life when her stupid parents and that bitch Angela mess everything up. Only, what happens when internal struggles start affecting the...
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18/08/24
Angel started her day by nearly drowning herself. When running her hands through her hair during her morning shower she lost all sense of self. Staring at the wall wasn’t the most interesting and otherwise she would have just thought about… well, those options were not the greatest and she wanted to test just how capable her lungs really were.
Clearly, not the most capable if they couldn’t hold just a bit of water.
Her phone pinged with messages from people she had to consider friends wanting a day out whilst she dried herself and put on some clothes. She accepted, obviously, and walked over to the kitchen for breakfast.
Her mother was out, as she usually was during the summer holidays when the girl she gave birth to just had to come back from boarding school so at least there was no noisy TV programme playing some stupid reality show. There was never a note stating her leave like she saw in really bad films about acceptance and friendship and romance, her mother and her just know that one of them is out and that’s pretty much it. Neither of them particularly care.
She grabbed the remote for the kitchen TV and turned on some vlog or another whilst she got to work on gathering breakfast. Not like there was much to gather, a rice cake and four strawberries and half of a banana. School was starting soon, she had to watch her figure even more carefully.
Her mother taught her much in that aspect. Under the continuous guise that Angel looked concerningly much like her father and should do everything in her power and then some to look better, as to not repulse anyone. So Angel did just that.
An hour was dedicated every night to a shower, face and hair care and 15 minutes in the morning to just freshen and touch up. Make-up was usually applied but minimal, she couldn’t be one of those freaks who caked it on and broke out into a fit of spots and blemishes. Angel did not have the time for blemishes. Calories were always controlled, meals always minimal and enough to sustain her whilst leaving room for the singular chocolate she allowed herself each day. An hour and a half of exercise and three hours of studying and revision kept her as good as possible.
But possible was never enough for Angel.
Pretty women always have to be, well, pretty of course. That’s rule one.
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“Hey, Angel, feels like we haven’t seen you in forever!” one of the three girls Angel had met up with whined as she wrapped her arms around the girl.
A grimace was held back.
“I’ve just been studying and the like, Marissa, you know me,” Angel replied, a pure chocolate-sweet smile coating her mouth.
“Doesn’t it feel like Angel’s accent gets worse and worse every time we see her?” Lana (one of the most annoying girls Angel had ever met) said with a teasing smile.
“I was born in England and I reside in England almost year-round for school. Of course I have an accent,” Angel said, trying to keep that chocolate-like silk to her words when all she wanted was to push those girls into oncoming traffic.
In order of descending annoyingness to Angel, Marissa came first. Really, Angel had very little problems with her. She didn’t text very much and they only met up maybe once a year to appease Marissa’s mother who constantly needed Marissa to be the most popular girl, the one with all of the ‘exotic’ friends. Like, for instance, a girl who goes to boarding school in quaint, old England and always needs to wear at least one pink item (AKA Angel, if you’re too slow to keep up).
Second was Chloe, a brown-noser. Constantly seeking attention and anything to keep her well liked by Angel, Marissa and Lana. Angel was only lucky she lived far enough to escape it almost 200 days of the year. There was a small conspiracy in Angel’s mind that knew it was due to the girl’s parents’ divorce and a bigger part that knew she was right. Not like she cared much. Any distance away from Marissa and her constant clinginess was a good distance.
Lastly, Lana: a purely dumb, blonde, American. Constant insensitive comments and slurs passed with no real thoughts behind them and not even a good body to make up for her sheer stupidity. The thought of associating with someone with such terrible looks and even worse intelligence and personality made Angel dry-heave. Still, she’s known the three girls since she was very young, before boarding school, when she first moved to New York.
Angel is nothing if not… well, an angel.
“Angel, where should we go first?” Chloe asked, her eyes wide like a puppy kicked over by its owner.
Yet another grimace was held back.
Pretty women don't emote if not in euphoria. That’s rule two.
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By the time Angel returned home, her arms were full with bags and the bags were full of a usage of the money Angel’s mum threw at her to keep her quiet and sustained.
Angel’s mother always said through long drags of cigarettes and copious amounts of red wine that if Angel had to ruin her with birth then she must put the only thing she was blessed to gain from her mother (intelligence) to good use.
There was always a tightrope of indecisiveness in Angel’s mind, wondering whether or not she looked up to her mother. Well, much as anyone could look up to a woman with an addiction.
Angel’s father hadn’t been in the picture since his incident when the girl was nine. Many people told her she looked almost exactly like him. Angel didn’t even know if it was a compliment. Should she look like a man? Is her femininity stained with his genes? Angel knew her mother’s hatred for and dissociation from her daughter stemmed from her resemblance to him. Still, Angel dealt with it, she isn’t one to complain and her mother is not one to act on her hatred, she would rather leave Angel to herself than spend her energy beating her like certain parents.
As the girl dug into her dinner (a half can of light tuna with egg whites and salt on top) she thought more about her school, more specifically Alica and Alica’s parents.
Angel was aware that Alica’s parents were certain parents. In History and Literature lessons where Angel and Alica were often sat next to each other, the younger girl would go on and on about her home troubles to Angel’s unwilling ear. An absolute chatterbox.
The taste of her meal lingered in Angel’s mouth even as she gulped down her water with a sigh. She washed her dishes and opened the fridge, grabbing a quick can of diet coke to keep her energy up whilst she worked.
Her footsteps had no impact on the floor as they usually did, drowned out by the sound of her mother laughing and enjoying the company of a man who seemed to frequent the flat. Not that Angel knew. She lived in a boarding school. Whatever life her mother led was unknown to her.
Sitting down at her desk she put her phone on silent and clicked Lana del Rey’s Born to Die (Paradise Edition) into her CD player, grabbing a stick of Extra Strawberry flavour chewing gum as she pulled out her revision materials.
Pretty women are always intelligent. That’s rule three.
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who has a face like smarty does? who has a voice like smarty does? who has a choice like smarty does? nobody, nobody, nobody.
