Displeased Domination (CraftBattleDuty and BajanCanadian Fanfic)

Chapter 2: The Sad Truth

Although or perhaps because I was all alone in my car, there was incredible tension gripping the atmosphere. The car was pushing along fairly normally, considering that the car had been pushed most likely way over the weight limit for cargo. I was so anxious that I gripped the steering wheel for what seemed like dear life. My eyes were glued to the road in a slightly dangerous fashion. Dangerous because I couldn't look up. I was just too nervous.

I finally pulled off the highway and down the exit until I reached the Manchester airport. The sky was an omenous grey, and I wondered if the flight would be postponed. Groaning at the thought, I pulled into the airport parking lot. Scanning the vast lot, I spotted two trucks. I ran through the crisp frosty autumn wind and met the truck drivers.

"Sammy Crystalleaf?" One asked.

I nodded.

"ID?"

I passed it over. Then I helped the men haul my suitcases into one of the trucks, which was a moving truck. After that interesting experience, I pulled my purse and carry-on bag out of the passenger seat and handed the other man my keys. He backed the car into the other truck, one for carrying vehicles. I then said goodbye to Tazzy, kissed her atop  the head, and gave her to the man with the car truck who would keep her in the front seat, feed and water her, and put down a litterbox.

"I'll call you to tell you where to drop it off!" I waved as I walked in the doors and to the metal detector.

1 hour later...

I sat in the far corner of the boisterous and highly movement oriented airport. I was sitting on the very edge of the creaking airport waiting chair. If I leaned back the chair made a noise like a dying bird. But I didn't care. I was blissfully obsorbed in one of my favorite childhood books, When You Reach Me, a depressing, yet funny, light-hearted, and deep novel. I had found it under my bed while cleaning and it was immediately unable to be put it down. It brings me pure, intangible happiness to curl up and read.

I look up only once, when a small boy, perhaps ten, tripped and fell on me. It knocked the book to the seemingly distant floor in an exceedingly rude manner. A factor that excavated the measurement of annoyingly rude behavior was that he didn't look up or at me once, nor did he apologize. I was completely intolerant of such ill mannered happenings and therefore addressed the matter. "Kid," I started. He turned around slowly, hesitation riddling his every move. As soon as his eyes met mine (or rather my face) he screamed and ran for his mom.

Realizing my unfortunately timed mistake, I rifled through my carry-on for make up. Holding up the hand mirror that I found confirmed my horror. Half of my make up had rubbed off. Although the bullying had made quite a difference in my face, I sometimes didn't understand what was so bad about my face. Before the bullying had started, back when I was really little, photographers looking for spokes children for companies would ask my mom if I could come for photoshoots. Of course, my mom always made the smart decision by saying no, because too much publicity can ruin a childhood. But I'd assume that it was because I had a cute face.

Sadly, after the bullying had started, my face had been stained and every square inch was crammed full of permanent bloody wounds. But the general shape and features were the same. Only bloodstains and scars made the difference. This saddened me that modern society had come to the point where this mattered. I reached down, picked up my book, and once again read, but this time, tears streamed down my face.

I tried to reassure myself that my face was fine, and that make up didn't change it that much. Even that my deaf ear and blind spot were normal. But the sad truth was always sneaking up behind me; punching me, metaphorically and perhaps even literally, in the face. Make up was not just used as an improvement to my face, but something to hide it with. And I would always have to hide behind make up. Forever.