(Point of View)
I lived my life on honesty instead of getting hurt by lies. So when my mother had asked me what was so important last night that I had returned home at three in the morning, I told her I was under the influence, which was expectedly followed by an hours’ long rant about how the only influence I should be under is god. You should see the way her hazel eyes beam as she sweeps short peroxide hair to the side every time she sees the Priest in town. It was rather amusing seeing her get all flustered over a guy who makes his living on reading a book.
“Alexandria Thorne, you listen to me young lady!” She yelled as she realized my gaze had glazed over in the middle of her reciting some passage from the bible. I stared at her like any other time she had complained about me not being able to focus on a lecture for too long. Instead of listening I was pulling apart her well-constructed costume in disguise. Today it was the usual business suit in the nauseous shade of pink and the same clammy chapped make-up. As she ranted on I focused on the coffee and cigarette stains on her teeth with a smudge of lipstick, just visible from where I sat a metre away on the mahogany dining table located in the middle of the kitchen. A gift from my lovely father-to-be, or so my mother referred to it as. He was more like a stranger, a stranger that was able to brainwash my mother with every belief that was labelled in the bible. The first and last time we had dinner all together was at Perfezione Italiano in which I recall throwing a pasta dish at my brother-to-be whom my mother adored very much so, which made me comprehend her face turning from beetroot to a shade in which I could only describe as a case of hypothermia. I recognized my cue and grabbed my torn black denim back pack from the ground and made my way out to the living room, turning right down the hallway and walking out the front door.
“Alexandria! You’ll be home in time for Grayson and Hunter to have dinner this time!” She yelled from the front door frantically, glancing at the surrounding neighbourhood to confirm there were no witnesses to her ‘dysfunctional family situation’ as she specified to it as.
“I won’t be. I’ll make sure of that.” I yelled back still walking away in the direction of the bus stop.
I live my life on honesty instead of getting hurt by lies.
(Point of View)
I live my life on lies instead of getting hurt by honesty. The unnatural truth just came easy to me and this way I never had to disappoint a person like I had to my mother, which only reminded me of my family-to-be. How my father could kiss yet alone look at a woman from what was known as the rough part of Oakfield appose to our pristine living I will never know. Especially with her daughter, whom I last recall throwing a pasta dish at me after offering her a psychoanalysis. And as I was staring at packed boxes whilst eating breakfast I began to feel nauseated.
“Son is everything packed and ready for this afternoon? Karen will be presenting us with a lovely home-cooked meal when we get there. I expect you to be polite and well presented.” He said straightening his suit and sleeking back his grey receding hair line.
“Yes of course, father. I shall be there on impeccable timing.” I replied formally.
“I would hope so.” He said levelling his gaze into a snide glare.
“I shall see you this afternoon 6pm sharp. And dress formally.” He said straightening up his suit and walking out the door. “There will be no therapeutic advice given this time.” He yelled as he made his way onto the driveway.
What could I say? I live my life on lies, instead of getting hurt by honesty.
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