The music is booming, clothes litter the floor. Brand new make-up stains are being absorbed into the once-cream now-muddy-grey carpet, but it's not like anyone cares: he doesn't come into my room any more. It's Saturday night and we're getting ready to go to the party, but I'm not really feeling up to it.
I put down my mascara brush and there's a shriek from Tally next to me.
'Hell girl! New dress here! Don't want horrible black marks down the front of it!' And she sweeps the skirt away.
I look up at her. She really does look stunning. She's wearing a turquoise party gown that folds down from one shoulder and flows out to the ground. She's done her hair in a messy bun, and is wearing the world's tallest studded stilettos ever, yet she still manages to look classy. Her eyes are framed with blue glitter and eyeliner, and her eyelashes could win prizes for curliness. To top it all off, she's put about ten different shades of lipstick on, but manages to pull off a brilliant effect of glossy red.
As I watch her fixing tiny blue stud earrings into her elf-like lobes, she smiles at me encouragingly through the mirror.
So I pick up the mascara brush again, and attempt to apply it, but my hand is shaking. I'm remembering.
I tapped softly on the wooden door to her bedroom, and strained my ears listening for a reply. Soon enough it came.
'Is that you, love? Come on in!' she laughed.
I peered round the doorway cautiously: you could never really know if she wanted you to come in or not, even when she did respond. It depended on her mood, on the type of day she'd had, how much drink she'd had, if they'd argued. You could usually tell by the tone of her voice, but still, you could never been too careful.
But today it was sugar sweet, and as the bedroom door creaked loudly as I walked into the room, she didn't even moan about the amount of noise I was making, which meant that she hadn't even had that much to drink. Thankfully.
Fenny was sitting with her back to me, but even then she still looked beautiful. Her long, silky, honey locks cascaded down her back like a waterfall, and I found myself thinking that she looked more than a little bit like a princess. As she turned to face me, she swept her fringe away from her eyes and I could appreciate the full beauty of her whole self. She gazed at me with a little smile on her polished lips, and her eyes crinkled at the edges. Just like mine do. Not that I've smiled in a while.
She patted her lap, motioning me to climb up, and said, in that little, tinkling voice, 'So, what can I do for my little girl?'
I didn't reply straight off. I concentrated on pulling myself up onto the bed and onto her lap, careful not to crease her pink cotton dress, which smelled of her perfume. I buried my head in her shoulder and took in the scent: roses and musk. She hadn't smelled like this in a long time.
Fenny lifted up my chin, and I gazed into her bright green eyes. She gazed right back.
'Is anything wrong?'
I looked around, then ducked my head.
I wanted to say everything. I wanted to say that I didn't want her to go out, because she wouldn't be back until late and that meant that he would drink because even though he didn't say it and didn't show it, I knew that he still loved her and he missed her. And then when he was drunk he would take all his anger out on me and the lock was broken on my door now so that was no use, and when she would finally come home they would argue and he would hit her and then cry, and then she would leave without even saying goodbye and not come home for ages and ages and ages, like last time, or maybe even longer.
YOU ARE READING
The Colour of Words
Teen FictionEveryone starts off as small. Everyone. I started off as smaller. But I grew. Gradually. Until she came. She came and she made my life living hell. Eventually I made it. I made it. I was big. Until she came back...