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Scarlett

Everything is hazy. Someone is here, a man. But I think I’m at home. So it must be him.

Who else would it be?

I feel his tender touch, and shift to get closer to his warmth.

“Piers? I’m so glad you finally came,” I whisper.

But he doesn’t say anything. He’s leaves me…just like always.

My cheek grows cold in the absence of his touch.

My head. I can’t shake this fog.

Something else is on my cheeks now. Something hot. More tears?

No, not tears. I can’t. Don’t cry…don’t cry. Not with mascara on. It’ll run, and Mum will be so mad. Think happy thoughts. I try…but the light fades.

Everything goes dark again as I’m pulled under by the ghosts of my past, the smell of smoke tickling my nose, the stench of alcohol surrounding me in a fog of unwanted memories.

I sit so still, my seven-year-old muscles hurt—as still as those creepy stone things with ugly faces and pointy wings on the top of buildings. I don’t dare move while my mum puts the sticky black stuff on my eyes, a cigarette nearly touching my cheek as she holds the wand to my face. It’s bright orange end burns brightly in the dimly lit room. A colorful threat.

“Open.” She exhales smoke into my face as I press my red lips in a tight line, holding my breath, but careful not to mess up my lipstick. “Blink.” She continues putting the dark goop on my eyes. The same stuff she always put on Jasmine’s. The same stuff that was always running down her cheeks when she came home at night. I don’t want to look messy like Jazz. I miss her.

Even though she hurt me, I still miss her. With eight years between us, she took care of me. I think about the last time I saw her a few weeks ago. I don’t know why she was so mad. She came home again with the black on her cheeks and saw mum brushing my hair. Maybe she was just jealous. Mum always says how my hair’s golden white like an angel, and how it would make the men love me. I don’t know why I needed men to love me. I just wanted my mum to love me.

“Open. Blink,” my mum orders, sweeping it on, her voice startling me, the movement causing ashes to flutter down my cheek. I jump back, afraid of the burn as her hand slips, the wand hitting my temple.

“Dammit! You little twit! Look what you’ve done now!” she yells in my face, the smell of alcohol burning my nose.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I whisper.

“You’re sorry? Sorry? I’m sorry too! Sorry I had you and your worthless sister. Sorry my son died.” I try not to cry, knowing it’ll only make her yell more. “If I would have had boys, I wouldn’t have had to worry about this. Boys take care of their mothers. Girls…girls are good for nothing whores. That’s all you’ll ever be, you and your sister.”

I try not to cry as she squeezes my jaw in her hand. I don’t know what she means, but I’ve heard men call her that a lot, so I’m pretty sure it’s bad. “Naughty little girls don’t get to play dress up,” she spits out as she takes her thumb and silences my whimpers by dragging it across the seam of my lips, smearing red lipstick as she goes. I can’t help the tears that fall. I try to blink them back, but they won’t stop coming.

“Stop crying, you little brat.” She squeezes tighter.

“Please, Mum. You’re hurting me,” I cry.

“Look what you’ve done to your mascara. Whiny little babies get locked up while Mommy goes to work to get candy.” She drops my face when there is a loud knock at the door. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, brat. Go wash your face. You look like a filthy whore.”

She drops her cigarette on the ground and steps on it as she turns to go answer the door.

I run to the bathroom, locking myself in. “I’m going out, honey. There’s food in the fridge,” she yells as she slams the door. I know she’s lying. There’s never food in the fridge. There’s hardly any food at all since Jazz left.

Looking in the dirty mirror, I take in the black marks under my eyes and red smeared all around my lips like a clown. “No, no, no!” It’s all over my face.

I grab the cleanest towel I can find and turn the faucet on, the pipes making a scary groan. Letting the water run from brown to clear, I wet the towel and wash my mouth, trying to wipe the red away. It looks like blood on the dingy tan cloth. Then I scrub and scrub my cheeks until they burn, but it’s not all gone. I panic and scrub some more, until it hurts.

I cry and scrub.

Scrub and cry.

I’m a good girl. I’m not naughty. There’s no food.