My Shadow [on hold]

3) How Romantic

You know how in the movies, the girl takes forever picking her outfit? Trying stuff on (which obviously fit and looked somewhat decent, because otherwise why the hell is it in your closet?), only to take it off throw it on the bed, among all the other 6 million things on your bed that you've already tried on and don't look good, even if they looked good yesterday. Yeah?

I was not like this.

I was worse.

No, I was on the floor with all the 6 billion things that didn't look quite right. My stomach was tying itself in knots, but it could have been trying to digest me, so that I wouldn't have to go tonight. Imagine that, 'Here lies, Emma Abigail Malcolm, died from her stomach mistakenly eating her body. Beloved daughter. May she Rest In Peace.'

It was a nice service.

Unfortunately though, I was still surrounded by more clothes than I knew I had. In fact, I had to awkwardly manoeuvre around them, to move around my room, and by that I mean, play a version of the floor is lava where my clothes are the lava. I also tugged my hair and screamed "nooooooooooooooooooooo", like they do in those melodramatic high school films, where they zoom out from the person to the world, as if the world is ending. I did this a few times.

Ugggh...why'd I have to say yes?

I eventually settled on a purple dress, that puffed out at the waist, and stopped just below the mid-thigh point. Simple, classic and cute. Or maybe...I picked up a black skirt. Stop it, Emma, I scolded myself.

I flicked on a few coats of mascara and applied a smidge of black eyeshadow to bring out my hazel eyes. My hair, I decided, to leave down. It flowed down to my mid-back, and was a dark-blonde shade.

7:05 p.m.

I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs.

My mom was sitting by the dining table working. She worked as an interior designer, so she had those paint sample booklets open on the table with a bunch of photos of furniture, different tile styles and wood types, splayed on the table.

My dad was watching some type of scripted cooking show, where everything was going horrendously wrong.

"Hey, sweetie," mom greeted, when she saw me standing there.

That made my dad turn around.

"Don't you look lovely," she gushed in that parental way, that makes your cheeks flame despite how you hear it every time you throw on something more formal than sweatpants. My dad scowled.

"Where are you going?," he asked in a gruff voice.

"Oh, Phillip" My mom sighed. "She's just going to her friend's party," she said, sending me a covert wink.

My mom was aware of my date tonight, but she knew my dad would have problems with it. Like lock-me-in-a-tower-with-a-dragon problems with it. As I was his one and only daughter, child and future heir. So, she came up with a fake party lie, so that I could go on my date.

"Well, this is the first I've heard of this," he responded curtly, accentuated with a tight smile. "How come no one asked me if I was alright with this?"

Here we go...

"Because I already told her she could go," my mom replied offhandedly, examining all the samples and products on the table.