Revolting Love

Aria

Biting my nails, I stared at my mother in boredom as she explained that I was moving schools. "I know that it's sudden and I'm terribly sorry; but it's a great school with countless opportunities." I grumbled in agreement, stretching on the uncomfortable bar stool. I needed a change of scenery anyway. Plus, I was getting bored surpassing my fellow classmates.

"What's the school's name?" The chewing on my nails increased. New schools. New people to annoy the piss out of me. "Oh, Arch Angels Academy." She laughed nervously, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder. We had the same hair color, yet mine was much longer. My mother hated the heat, so shoulder length hair was a requirement. "The name is a little obnoxious if you ask me, however," she said as she pulled out a crip white envelope, gold lettering scribbled across the top in fancy letters. 'We welcome you. Congrats' Jesus. If they thought so high and mighty of themselves, maybe they should run for government. I shuddered. Never mind. Not the best idea.

"You should probably fill this out, pick which electives you want. All that fun stuff!" Gushing, she patted the letter, pushing it toward me. Giving her a curt nod, I opened it, my eyes rolling at the fancy lettering once again. Just as my mum said. Obnoxious. "Dear?" "Yes mum?" I asked, my eyes still flicking over the packet. "Aria, stop that!" "Stop what?!" I snapped back, looking at her in defiance. "Your nails," her voice a whisper and her fingers clenching.

Looking down, I groaned. While chewing my nails, I had pulled back my cuticles. This resulted in blood gushing down my hands. I wasn't going to clean that up anytime soon. "You have got to be kidding me." I really did need to squelch this habit. It was getting ridiculous. And apparently dangerous. "I know just the thing dear! Don't fret. We'll call Susie, that one nail stylist. You know who I'm talking about, yes? She's absolutely terrific! She can do your nails splendidly so you won't have to go to school next week like that."

I stared at her in shock as she beamed at me, her idiotic and cliché words gnawing at me. "Pardon," I whispered quietly, my voice on the verge of deadly. I watched as she turned pale, now thinking about her word choice. She knew how I hated the thought of anything that assumed girls wanted a certain thing. "Oh, uh, well of course you don't have to get that done if it doesn't suit you." "It doesn't suit me." Stuttering, she backed away, turning to open the fridge and scan through the products.

"What do you want for dinner?" Changing the topic; smart woman. "It's not like you're actually cooking it, so why are you asking?" Her sharp blue eyes met mine swiftly as she stiffened, turning around slowly. Unfortunately, I got my father's green eyes. Everyone always had something to say about them. "Fix your tone immediately, young lady. I'm asking so our chef can prepare it. You have pretty lips, you don't want them gone, do you?"

In an instant, I was reminded again the reason why I swore I would never love. It was her, and what she did to people. Slinking back, I was also reminded of the reason I was so fucked up. Taking a deep breath, I looked down; trying not to let my fear get the best of me. "No, mum." "Good girl." Automatically switching back over to nice mom, she asked the question again. This time I answered correctly. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

She looked at me funny. "Are you sure dearie? He can also cook more posh dishes if you'd like." "No thank you. You asked me what I want, and that's my answer. If you don't want it made, I understand. It's just my opinion." She nodded, twirling a piece of her bang around her index finger as she lost herself in thought; dismissing the conversation, dismissing me.

It seemed it was always this way. She pulled me away from whatever I was doing to flaunt about whatever captured her interest for a split second. However, after that short moment of bliss, her dark thoughts would pull her under again and she was out of my grasp. A psychotic whirlwind of beauty that never seemed to stop moving. At least, until calm settled over the town again, leaving the whirlwind distraught and lost.

Huffing in annoyance, I trudged up the stairs, quickly finding my room and plopping onto the bed. As I looked at the walls, I remembered the first time I had gone to a friend's house. I had always made them come to mine, but I guess this girl was just an exception. I remember I had struggled not to cry as I looked at her walls, and I remember her mom being so worried that my father had to pick me up. I hadn't understood what made me so upset until my family were all sitting around the dinner table and I spilled milk. The maid cleaned it up, left, and I sobbed. I realized from there.

Her walls had been decorated with pictures and colorings, little things that just said 'Look! I live.' The pictures had her family either gathered around, smiling at the camera, or catching one of them looking at another. Either that or her other friends at the beach, random selfies, mall, etc. My walls are white. Just... plain, old boring white. No pictures. No drawings from when I was young. All those things had been lost in the fire.

Twisting around in my bed, I tried to forget the awful memories of the flames erupting around me as my mother cackled in delight and my father rushed to get all of us out of there safely. I think the most vivid memory in my eight year old mind that night was not the flames or my father rocking me against his chest and sobbing, repeating how sorry he was. No. The most vivid memory is how even though my mom seemed to be laughing, tears had still been streaming down her cheeks.