Chapter Six: Stabbed in the Eye by a Porcupine

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Chapter Six: Stabbed in the Eye by a Porcupine

Fragrant aromas of perfume wafted into my nostrils, threatening to give me a headache if I ingested any more of the odorous scent. A sigh escaped my lips as my eyes dully roamed around the room. From where I was seated, I had a nice view of the expansive window, so was able to see the torrential rainstorm occurring outside. As I took in the weather, thunder sounded, almost acting to be reflective, in a way, for the way that my day was going so far.

      I had been insolently awoken this morning at the ghastly hour of nine, my mom yelling a quick, “We’re leaving in thirty minutes, I put clothes on your dresser!” as she dashed out of my room before I could fully process everything. Smart move, Elle. Very astute on her part. When I did eventually open my eyes, I remembered that today was the dreaded Saturday that I would be spending at the country club. Fun.

      After an internal battle with myself about whether or not I would actually follow through with my “promise” of going, I decided that losing my car for a week didn’t sound too appealing, nor did having my credit cards taken away. When my parents presented the occasion to me about two weeks ago, I had protested (as I always did), but they then presented me with a negotiation that I couldn’t exactly turn down: go the country club to see my grandparents in “appropriate” attire, or lose my main mode of transportation for an undetermined amount of time (my car was my baby) in addition to getting the shards of plastic that I used to pay for quite a few things repossessed by them for a month. Obviously, I chose the country club.

      I lazily willed myself out of bed, barely awake as I glanced down at what Elle was forcing me to wear for this specific instance: a dress. This particular garment consisted of the colors pink and green, and had a flowery pattern on it that made me want to vomit, despite the contents in my stomach being nonexistent. It was atrocious.

      Personally, I liked darker tones. Black, purple, and gray were among the colors that appealed to me, pink, green, yellow, and orange amid the ones that I abhorred. Colors that could be perceived as “cheery” I didn’t like, for they promised the false pretense that life was “jovial”, when, in reality, it was anything but. Also, I just preferred the gloomier hues because I they were more… me.

      I begrudgingly forced myself into the dress, the consequences a heavy reminder that were sailing about in my brain. Obviously, it looked ridiculous on me. I was the type of person who possessed skin whiter than unsoiled snow (okay, that was a slight exaggeration—I was pale, but in a healthy way), so certain colors simply didn’t “work” on me—pink, green, and flowers being some of them. It was sleeveless, came right below the knee, and was relatively fitted. As stated previously, it was appalling.

      Glancing over to my dresser, I noticed that another article was placed, signifying the honor of being worn by me. It was a sweater—but not just any sweater. No, this one was of a matching pink tint to my dress, and had an assortment of pearl accessories lying on top that included: a headband, earrings, a necklace, and a bracelet. Elle was really pushing it with the pearls. I could (and would have to) tolerate the dress and sweater, but there was no way in hell that I was embellishing with the freaking pearls. No. Damn. Way.

      After finding a pair of gold flats on my floor (left by my mother) and fixing my dark hair so that it didn’t fully look like I had just gotten up, I was prepared to face anything—even the country club. Well, physically. Emotionally, I was about as resentful and stolid as could be.

      Somehow, after a miniature battle, my parents and I left the house, headed to meet Danni and Dean, all dressed to impress. My dad was taking the term “preppy” to a whole other level as he was sporting salmonnot pink—pants, a white, collared shirt, and boat shoes. As for my mom, well, she was dressed similarly to me, but wore a navy, striped dress that appeared less juvenile than mine. It was quite the image of the “perfect” family—on the outside, of course. Internally, we were about as screwed up as they came.

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