The trouble with drugs is that no matter how much pain and misery they put you through, they become a part of you. And you will always want to go crawling back.
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l a r e i n a
♕Aaron♛ I don't know how to feel as I adjust my white dress-shirt and wait for Elizabeth to come down from upstairs. I don't even know why I own a dress-shirt in the first place.
There's a million questions running through my mind, stepping on my poor brain like feet on a pavement. It literally gives me a headache. I regret letting my stubbornness get to me. I should have asked Diana about the people that would be there. Will other family members be there? My grandparents? Aunts? Christophe's business partners? Am I too dressy? What if everyone else is in T-shirts?
I tear off my tie and undo the top button.
I'm not nervous or anything, I just don't know what the fúck I agreed to.
The last time I sat at their dinner table, I made an announcement myself- I was moving out. I was tired of constantly being looked down upon by Christophe because I didn't fit in his stereotypical, upper class family. My mother, however, had an excuse; he was in love with her. Her ghetto ass could cuss all day if she wanted, and he'd think it was cute and unique. But the more tea parties she attended with his family and friends, the more that my mom washed away. She rejected her gold hoops for real diamonds and fúcking pearls. A different pair for every day in the month. She rejected her slang and replaced it with etiquette.
Me? I didn't give a damn. And I still don't.
I stayed the way I was, no matter what. While they went to golf tournaments, I went out, boxed, and made money. Christophe told me that my "urban ways" needed to change if I ever wanted a fair place in society. So, I decided to change homes. Easy. I can't deal with bullshít.
Christophe got happy as hell when I introduced the idea. My mom? Not so much.
But her begs and pleads fell upon deaf ears. My months of fighting and relentless criticizing needed to end. I needed to leave before I beat his ass in front of his kids, and he knew that I would. Christophe wanted me out so badly that he even rented this beach house and pre-paid my fees until I was able to cut him off and do everything on my own. Ever since then, I avoided that house like the Goddamned plague, only visiting to spend time with my little sister because she seemed to be the only one with common sense. His sons are just like him; judgmental, snobby little white-boys. They're like eighteen and twenty-two year-old versions of Donald Trump in my eyes.
My rambling mind is interrupted when Elizabeth's footsteps became louder and louder. I swear that my breathing stops as I take in her straightened hair, falling just above her little waist. Her lips, pink. Eyes, glowing. She looks amazing.
"Do you like the dress?" She asks shyly.
I didn't even look at it yet.
I remember choosing it for her, knowing that she'd like it. The baby blue fabric hugged her in all my favorite places. The hem reached her lower thighs, back cut out. It's the first time I've ever seen her all dolled-up, wearing heels, with her hair done. She's barely even wearing any make-up and it's like I'm falling in love with her beauty all over again.
