Fractured Glass

Chapter 1

Dinner's awkward. My parents won't look at eachother, and they both try to be especially sweet to me - but I see through them both. They just want an ally against the other.

"So, sweetie," Mom begins, placing her perfectly manicured hand on my sweaty one. She's a model - used to be a swimsuit model, but after kids, she's just a hand model. She's 39, but looks about 27. I'm not even supposed to touch her hands, lest I mess up her nails or perfect skin or something. "How was your day?"

"Fine," I mumble, pretending to focus on my food. I push the salad around, not really eating anything,

"Sorry for the meager dinner. I didn't have time to get anything, and this is all we had in the fridge." Mom laughs, like this is funny. Then, with daggers in her eyes, she looks at me expectantly, a plastic smile glued on her face.

I smile at her, making sure she can tell it's fake. "It's wonderful, Mom. I didn't want fast food anyway." I look back at my plae, and the painfully fake smile evaporates.

"Do anything fun? Write anything new?" It's Dad's turn interrogate me now. I hear Mom tsk softly at him.

"I'm sure," she says slowly, smiling at me but speaking to Dad, "that Elise hasn't written anything new. We've already discussed that, er, activity."

In an effort to piss her off as much as possible, I cheer up my face and respond brightly. "Actually, Mom, I have. I've come up with a new plot line, and it's fantasy. Wanna hear about it? It won't take long-"

"No." Mom removes her hand from mine and draws herself up to her full height, staying seated. The plastic smile is gone, replaced by a poisonous look that is full of contempt. "Nobody wants to hear about your fantasy."

"Let the girl speak," Dad interjects, but he's only defending me because it's the opposite of what Mom wants.

"No!" Mom turns her head sharply to face Dad, and he flinches a little before regaining his composure and mimicking her look of hatred. "Fred, we've discussed this activity before. It is not suitable for a girl Elise's age to simply be sitting in her room writing all day! She should be wearing dresses and going out and getting a boyfriend-" I cringe "- and shopping and painting her nails and being a normal girl, for heaven's sake, and she WILL NOT, she WILL NOT continue this habit of writing fantasies in her spare time! It's not right! She should be having a social life, not no life at all. It's just sad how she has to resort to writing because those characters are hr only friends!" Ouch, Mom. My breath quickens. Not here, don't you dare.

Dad stands, matching my mother's verbal strength with a show of his physical size. "She is perfectly fine, just how she is. She's doing good, putting that big brain of hers to use! With you here trying to dumb her down and dye her hair and make her your definition of feminine, you'd think she was some modelling hopeful that came to you for help! She didn't ask for your help, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't want it either! She'll live her life, and you needn't be a part of it if you'll just try to change her!"

Mom's standing too now, and they've begun screaming. My throat tightens, and my heart beat quickens. Not now. Don't loose control. Keep composure. You can do this.

"She's not okay! We should send her to an all girls school or something, and maybe then she'll learn to be female, and-"

"See, you're just not content with anything! First I'm suddenly not enough, and now you want to change our daughter to suit your needs-"

"What? I want to change her?! You're the one who's constantly telling her to be what she wants while secretly manipulating her into being your ideal child-"

"THAT'S A LIE! You filthy-"

"I'm going to bed!" I say suddenly, interrupting the tornado that is my parents. They instantly stop, and both look at me. I'm standing, tears gathering in my eyes, lump in my throat, and hands clenched at my sides. "Maybe I'll come down in the morning, but maybe not; neither of you really want me!"

I walk out of the room, lip quivering and clenched hands shaking. I said that last piece to hopefully unite them under the cause of making their daughter feel wanted, but no such luck.

"This is your fault," Dad says quietly.

"My fault?!" Mom exclaims. "My fault? Of course, because every little thing that goes wrong in our marriage is my fault. Of course."

"I didn't say that, but it is true, I mean-"

"You! How dare you say that to me! I'll-"

I end up sprinting up the last couple steps, because I don't want to have to deal with my parents' pointless bickering anymore. My throat is completely closed, and my lungs heave as the sobs are ripped out of me. I manage to contain them until the door to my octagonal bedroom slams, and then I collapse on the floor and sob uncontrollably.

Why, why does this happen to me? Why do they have to be my parents?

But the question returns, the one that hurts me the most.

What did I do for them to hate me so much?