Ugly Perfections

Chapter 36

So when I go home, and everything goes to shit, I won't feel a damn thing.

I'm messed up. I'm so messed up. I always knew that.

As much as I tell myself that I was just ruined. Deep down, I think I always knew. I'm just as messed up as my brother. My psychotic, fucked up brother.

It's all his fault. 

Because he left. Because he never cared enough to come back, or check on me.

To see who he left me with. 

Sometimes I doubted if my brother ever loved me at all. If he was even capable of it.  

No matter how perfect the situation might have looked from the outside. No one understood just how ugly it could get on the inside.

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??? POV:

I stand before the mirror, my eyes scanning my reflection at all angles. I don't know how long I spend doing this. And frankly, I don't even want to know. 

Whether it's just staring in the mirror at myself, trying to convince myself that there's nothing wrong. Or taking my phone and recording myself. From the back, the front, the side. Every possible angle I could think of

But the feeling intensified. The sickening feeling deep in my stomach. Because looking at myself again. I just feel dirty. 

In my world, perfection is demanded, and every flaw, real or perceived, feels like a sharp dagger piercing my soul. Because I have to be like her. My mother. 

At home, life is a delicate dance of pleasing her, my mother. She treats me like a fragile doll. Something to be displayed and admired, yet never truly understood. 

My mother, on the surface, is beautiful - a vision of elegance and grace. Complete and utter perfection. But appearances deceive. And that's exactly what my mother is. A deception. A cover up to her ugly interior. And that's exactly what I am too.

Natalie has always been a master of people-pleasing. It was a way for her to maintain that illusion of perfection. To the people who were naïve enough to fall for it. Everyone adores her, I figured that out the second I was old enough to speak.

But I always knew the truth. The truth to her. The foolish facade she puts on? I saw through it years ago. And unlike others who were blinded by her, I listened. I listened and I observed. 

My mother. My mother should have been my role model. The person I looked up to. But for me, it was the very opposite.  I didn't. I  couldn't. The idea was foreign to me. Sickening. 

But she was still my mother. My blood. And as much as I would love to say that I hate her. She had already strung me up. And I was in far too deep already. 

As I gaze at my reflection, the self-loathing intensifies. My eyes linger on every perceived flaw - the imperfections in my skin, the curves that aren't quite right. The reflection before me becomes a distorted image of my self-worth, and I can't bear to look any longer.

Suddenly, the door to my room creaks open, and my mother strides in, her presence suffocating. I freeze, feeling vulnerable under her scrutinising gaze. "Is that a new dress?" she inquires, her voice saccharine sweet. My head shakes involuntarily, but her keen eye catches every nuance. 

"I've never seen you in this one," she remarks, and a lump forms in my throat. I quickly respond, trying to sound casual, "I got it a few years ago. Managed to fit in it." It's a lie, of course.