Temper (Taboo Book 1)

1- Unhealthy

Romance was the idol in my home. I learned from my mother, and all of her perfection, how a lady should behave. She taught me in her subtle way how to show and accept love.
       
I noticed everything in small moments. Father could never help but to stare at her from across a room, caress her shoulder absentmindedly, or close his eyes as he kissed her hair to make the moment last forever.

I wanted to be loved the way my father loved my mother. I would watch her and wish to be made to feel the way she did. She sighed contentedly, closed her eyes, and inhaled all of the affection he gave. She giggled at his whispers and sly touches, none meant for my young eyes and ears.

She was beautiful with reddish gold hair rolling down to her hips. She stood almost a head above Father but still managed to be feminine. Her creamy, peach-toned skin made her pale-blue eyes almost luminescent.

She was the epitome of feminine perfection but also so much more. She was charitable, docile in most situations, but fierce when anyone dared question her morals.

She was a lesson all along, in her own way- a confusing puzzle none of us solved.

***

It took years for Mother to win the argument for me to go to school. Father had been adamant in the fact that I was safer being taught at home by a tutor.

I was fifteen when I was subjected to the strange behaviors and language of people my own age. It didn't take long to become invisible and to stop going to class altogether. My sixteenth birthday proved to be no different.

I woke anxious for the extravagant evening party Mother planned. I knew the neighboring bully would come with his widowed father.

Kids from school who couldn't place my face with my name would attend. My estranged grandparents also planned to make an appearance. As I put on my school uniform and tied back my long, straight black hair I tried not to envision the last time Grandmother was in our home.

I was young and frightened of the tall, intimidating woman. Grandmother never fit the stereotype. She was young for the title of Grandmother, wasn't affectionate, and I doubt she'd ever baked a pie. Her voice rang for Mother as she entered the house. I hid in my bedroom, listening to her footsteps and fighting to remain silent as she passed.

Mother had yet to utter a word when Grandmother Elizabeth began a tirade about 'interference'- a topic never lived to be elaborated. She accused Mother of having no respect, of being a worthless degenerate. She claimed Mother was never worthy of being carried in Grandmother's womb.

Mother responded with silence. When Grandmother left, Mother didn't even cry. Her face was hard as she put away her makeup brushes. I still didn't understand why Grandmother was so cruel for all those years. I knew there would be an icy civility between them when witnesses and guests were around.

My anxiety rose as my mind returned to the present. I zipped my skirt, grabbed my cherry chapstick, and rushed from my room. I realized most of the attention would be trained on Mother, even though I would have to turn the spotlight to myself on occasion.

It was rare for Mother to attempt cooking a real meal. The results of her efforts were always inedible. For my sixteenth birthday, she took lessons to be able to provide the perfect cake with her own hands. It was her own vision for me.

She knew I despised surprises but wouldn't even reveal the type of frosting. After hearing Father compliment her work from the kitchen I let myself grow excited. At least there would be something pleasant about the event.

Nothing seemed amiss when Mother kissed me goodbye that morning. At school, it was any other day. The rain pushed me to stay longer in the gazebo where I hid, doing my school work. I was relieved when Father picked me up an hour early to ready for the party as promised.