Adopted By Melanie Martinez

Prolouge

"You better go get sick before mommy comes back. You know she'll check." My mama said, pointing towards the bathroom as she gestured to the now-empty glass plate. She always told me that to be beautiful and skinny that I had to never let nasty food stay in my body too long or it would make me big and ugly.

I guessed she was right, though I didn't think the big girls were ugly. I kind of liked the shape of the girls when you couldn't see their bones. I liked the way they gave hugs. It was always so warm and comforting.

My moms never gave warm hugs. They were always uncomfortable and sharp. Not that they gave me many hugs anyways. It was more or less whenever other people were around. They always said, "Abigale, you have to be nice in front of other people if you want them to like you," or, "People won't like you for who you are, Abigale. No one will ever like you for you. It's always going to be for what you have or for what you look like."

That's why we made ourselves sick after we ate. We had to look good and skinny after every meal.

I put my head down and walked down the hallway with pastel pink wallpaper and many happy pictures on the wall. I turned to the left at the first pure white doorway and opened the door. Inside the bathroom was a gray marble sink, a large pearl toilet, and a large stand up marble shower. On the sink counter was a small stuffed brown bear holding a sign that said "Mom." I gave it to my moms for Christmas one year after learning about Christmas in school.

We never celebrated Christmas. My moms always said that Christmas was just a way companies got you to spend all your money and get fat.

I knelt beside the toilet seat and pulled my long brown hair into the thick grey hairband that always sat on the counter next to the toilet.

I always wanted to cut my hair. To get it really short like some of the girls in my school, though my moms didn't like that idea. "Only dykes and girls with no beauty dress like boys. You're not a boy, are you, Abigale?"

I took my pointer finger and my middle finger and shoved them down my throat, tickling the uvula for a few seconds before I began to gag. I felt my food come up my throat before I tasted it. The dry salad tasted awful going down, much less coming back up.

I watched as the food catapulted itself out of my mouth, squeezing my sides and pinching my ribs as it did. I hated the feeling. Though, it never lasted long. I felt my ribs seem to bend themselves as they threw out more of the milky white and dark green food before all of it was in the toilet, leaving my stomach sore and my head aching.

I stood and flushed the toilet, washing my hands just after and taking my hair down, feeling its straight silky smooth texture slide down my face and tickle my sides as it laid back down to stop and rest at my hips. My moms made me straighten it every morning, saying that whoever the sperm donner was never said that his hair was curly. And, people don't like girls with curly hair. It was ugly. I quite liked my natural hair, though I was smart enough not to speak up against them.

Last time I spoke up and said that I didn't want to make myself sick, my mom tied me to the pole in our backyard and made me stand up in the ant pile for twenty-four hours, never bringing me food or water.

I looked up at the shiny mirror above the sink. It had a white rim around it with gold feathers littering the rim. Inside of the mirror was a sad-looking girl with dark gray eyes, thin brown eyebrows, hollow cheeks, a small nose, five or six light freckles around the nose, small lips which had turned white over time, and a neck which showed every single line, vein, bone, tendon, and structure there was hidden beneath it. It was as if a little kid was playing hide and seek under a thin, sheer blanket.

I sighed deeply to myself and start covering up all of my features with the makeup hidden in a drawer on the right hand side of the sink. Mom would pitch a fit if she came home from her modeling job to see me walking around without makeup like a natural-faced zombie.

I put foundation on first, making sure to keep it extra thick around my nose. God forbid I leave any freckles or beauty marks on my face. My moms would have a heart attack.

I let the foundation dry a bit a did my eyebrows as I waited, being sure to keep it in a perfect form. Thick. Arch. Pointy end. Always.

I moved on to my eyeliner, making dark lines with the liquid and ending with a thick wing that almost made it to my fake eyebrows.

I put on highlighter, highlighting under the eyebrow, in-between the eyebrows, above the cheek bones. (I actually don't know how makeup works. I don't use it in real life.)

I put on red lip liner, filling it in with a lighter red to make my lips look fuller. My moms would actually cut off my hands if I tried to go outside with my faded white lips.

I gave myself a smokey eye. Though, it wasn't any different than normal. I was only ever allowed to have a dark smokey eye. My Moms said it was best for a young lady, though my twelfth birthday wasn't for another four months.

I contoured, though it didn't ever help my massive sunken-in cheek bones or my overwhelming jawline. It never did. It only made me look like a spray tan went wrong.

I put the supplies away, but just as I stepped out of the bathroom door, my mom walked in the front door in a hurry. "Rebecca, we have to leave. Now. Franny from work called the police and said that her daughter told her that when Abigale was dressing in the locker room, there were hand shaped bruises on her sides. We are going to be arrested!" She called, all eyes suddenly shooting towards Abigale as sirens were heard outside.

"You stay here and don't say anything about that to the men. And do not let them lift your shirt!" They both said, marching out of the house together.

Hours later, my moms were in the back of a police car, driving off while one of the police officers took pictures of the bruises, telling me that I made the right choice and that I was going somewhere were they couldn't hurt me any more.

Angel Guardian Home. The only orphanage in Brooklyn that still used nuns. Not only was I being sent there, but I was being sent there in tears. I was an orphan now. There was no other family. No relatives. And, I knew I was too old to be adopted. No one would ever want a Preteen.

From that moment, I knew that I had made a mistake.

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A/N

I don't think I've ever cried so hard while writing a book. I know that the idea of this is very touchy for some people.

If this chapter triggered you or made you feel like you wanted to do these things, please do not read any further in the book and call 1-855-645-1214 to talk to an anonymous person. Please pass on the message and please do not try to starve yourself or harm your body in any way. If you feel bad about your body, know that you are beautiful and you look amazing just being you. Doing these things will not make you look better in the long run. Please, know that you really are beautiful and do not let anyone ever tell you differently.

All the love
- Brey