AUTHORS NOTE: THE AUTHOR IN NO WAY ENDORSES THE TREATMENT OF BOOKS IN THIS CHAPTER, PLEASE DO NOT TREAT YOUR BOOKS IN THE ABOMINABLE WAY MORGAN DOES. THANK YOU.
“Okay,” I replied nonchalantly.
She entered my room slowly, staring distastefully at the clutter.
She looked so out of place in my all black (except the bed) room.
I had inherited my (previously) blonde hair and blue eyes from her. She wore a light pink pencil skirt and a plain white blouse that perfectly framed the beautiful, expensive pendant that she was wearing. She was shorter than I was, even wearing high heels that matched her skirt; I had inherited my 5’10” height from my dad.
After standing awkwardly for a minute or two she finally coughed and cleared a space on the chair next to my desk while I settled into my bed, expecting this lecture to take quite a while.
“Morgan,” she said finally, seeming to have resigned herself to the fact that the faster she talked to me the faster she could get out of my room.
“Yes, Mother?” I replied, bored.
She coughed once more and stiffened her posture as if I might notice and I would sit up straighter in response. I didn’t.
“Morgan, honey,” she began again. “I think you need to work on your attitude around my friends. I need my family to make a good impression on them. Please, honey. Can you please try to be just a little nicer to them?”
My mother was not a great discipliner. She would glare and act mad but when it came to the actual, “Morgan, I am revoking your phone,” or, “Morgan, I’m grounding you,” or whatever, she didn’t really follow through. That was left to my dad. The thing was she didn’t like to make people mad, which meant that she spent the time trying to bargain instead of punish. I wasn’t big on bargaining, so it was basically her talking to me like I was a three-year-old while I refused to give in at all.
“Mother,” I said with contempt. “You know I don’t like your friends. They’re all big mouthed and only focused on money and just annoying. If one of them were to ask me what I thought about Heaven, or death, or even just, like, a book I was reading or something, than yeah. I would talk to them, but do you think I really care about Mrs. Whatsherface’s three perfect little kids? No, and if you weren’t so focused on your reputation and money and all that crap than you wouldn’t either.”
I had a bad habit of not really having a brain-to-mouth filter. I had more of an I’m-super-mad-right-now-so-I’m-going-to-spout-out-random-words-that-are-going-to-get-me-in-so-much-trouble kind of filter. Here’s a tip: they don’t really work to your advantage. Ever. I mean, what I wouldn’t trade for a nice filter where I could say stuff like, “I understand your concerns, Mother. But, I feel that when I converse with your friends that they are talking to me about issues that don’t really pertain to me and that I find somewhat superficial. However, I understand that they are the people you enjoy spending time with so I will try to be more pleasant in the future.” If I had that kind of filter than my mother wouldn’t be staring at me like she was about to murder me with a rusty fork or something.
“We will be talking to your father when he returns home,” she said with a cold, murderous look in her eye. I knew that she wouldn’t punish me, but threatening me, oh yeah. She had absolutely no problem with that.
She walked out of my room proudly, back straight and chin up. Exactly the opposite of how I walked: head down and shoulders curling into my body.
YOU ARE READING
Morgan Deland is obsessed with death. It fascinates her, the idea that someone can be on Earth one second and the next be somewhere else. She wears all black and she dyed her hair a dark red. Thus, her meager supply of friends at school gave her a nickname: Morgue. One day...