The Pretty Project

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My eyes peel open, the beautiful dream lost and forgotten. I wish I could stay this way, peaceful, in a happy bliss. I wish I would be able to remember my life before the surgery, to remember my friends. I want to remember my mother, even if she doesn't want to remember me. Maybe then I wouldn't mind the events to come.

If I could just remember who I was before, I might be able to make peace with being a Pretty. Maybe, if I could keep my mind, I wouldn't care if I became a Pretty. What if when I become a Pretty...

I'm actually happy?

I've never really been happy, never experienced a true blissful moment. I've dreamt of being happy, maybe being free, not tied down by the Pretty Project. That would be nice, not worrying about being taken from my mother. Maybe I would know my father, maybe we would be happy. Maybe my mother wouldn't shut me out all the time. Maybe she would actually love me, and openly say it to my face.

I can picture him, my father. He has dark brown hair, similar to mother and mine, the same as his dark brown eyes. He's kind, gentle and loving; everything I wish my mother was. I know his name is Reece, and his last name is Bo, just like me. I can't say I love him, because I don't. I love the thought of him.

I love what he represents, what he stands for.

"Maddison, are you awake?" The journal slams closed, not wanting her to see what I've written. She tentatively walks in, looking down at me solemly. As she speaks, I have a sort of revalation. When I get my surgery done in a few hours, I wont remember this, any of it. I could go sky diving and I won't have even the ghost of a rush in my stomach.

It's perfect, it really is. I can tell her everything and I won't remember to feel bad when I wake u. But the window is closing, I need to act fast if this is to work.

"Julie?" I decide calling her this is for the best, maybe a slap in the face, but for the best. "I haave a lot to tell you, so please, take a seat.." I watch as she sits at my desk, one of my only friends. My desk was there all those very lonely nights when I wanted her to sing me to sleep but she was too ashamed of being my mother to do so. All those nights when I understood that she would never love me, writing in my journals, which I have twelve of.

"I don't want you interupting me, just let me say my piece." She nods in a silent agreement, the guilt already taking her features as she can't bare to look at me. "I want you to look at me when I say this." She does as she is told, and I can't help but like the power I have over her.

"Do you remember the night Grandmother died? I do. Quite vividly, actually. You had been arguing and she called you Julie, that was the day I learned your name. Just imagine, an eight year old who didn't know her own mother's name!" A strained laugh escapes my lips, making me sound crazier than I already am. "I can't decide if I'm upset that I have to leave you, or relieved. I mean, you hate me." She opens her mouth to intergect but I silence her with my hand. "No, don't interupt me. You do hate me, I know you do. You don't have to hide it.

"I just want you to know how much you have hurt me in the last sixteen years. There's an old song I found, by someone long dead. The song is called Because Of You by a Kelly Clarkson, she was popular when Grandmother was young. Maybe you've heard it, maybe you haven't." I bite my lip as I pull my laptop out, pressing play on the song, watching her reaction as the lyrics hit her.

I wonder if she understands why I'm showing her this particular song. Has she seen the resemblance of the lyrics and our relationship? I wonder if she realizes these lyrics are exactly how I feel, as if the song was made for me, as if it was my song.

"Why are you showing me this?" I knew she wouldn't get it, then again, I'm not sure I understand my own reasoning. Is making her feel guilty for not loving her Ugly child solving anything? No, no it isn't, but I have more than just the one reason. I have sixteen years of reasons for showing her this song. I have sixteen years of neglect, sixteen years of being bullied at school and her not doing a damn thing about it the way parents are supposed to. I have sixteen years of wondering why my mother doesn't love me, or even want me. I have sixteen years of knowing that she has another daughter, a Natural daughter, that she would rather be spending time with. Even the name of the song is a very reason.