Precious [h.s.]

Chapter 1

I don't wanna be no man's woman,
I've other work I want to get done.
I haven't traveled this far to become, no man's woman.

I hate my life.

I know there are people who have it harder than me. I have food and a roof over my head, which is more than enough for many. I am grateful, of course I am, but If I am being honest, I would get rid of them all just to get away from him. I don't need them; I would find something to do with my life. There are endless possibilities.

However, she needs them more than anything. If there wasn't his money, sh-

"Are you listening, honey?" says Michael between laughs, wiping at his eyes.

No.

"Of course I am," I tell him with a fake smile on my face, hoping that he would get back to talking to himself while I pretend that I'm listening to him.

This has been going on for over an hour. I was in the garden when this asshole came from work and started to talk my ear off about how Mark from the finances department, a guy I've never heard of, got a file wrong, so he had to get it from the start, but the printer didn't work because it was out of ink. He had to go out to buy it himself, but he didn't know how to use it, so his shirt and carpet got stained.

Really funny.

"How was your day, hun?" If I hear this stupid pet name he gave me again, I am going to shoot myself. Or him.

"It was okay. I didn't do much. I made this pretty amazing painting of a-"

"You know your little drawings aren't a topic of discussion prefer," he interrupts me before I even get the chance to finish my sentence, leaning back in his chair and putting on his sunglasses.

Of course he doesn't care. He's a selfish prick who only cares about himself and his job. He works eight hours a day and I am left alone - if you don't count the housemaids who hate me, for a reason unknown to me - in this huge house. It's not like I enjoy his company, because I really don't, but it gets lonely sometimes.

I have to stay here and do nothing all day even if I have a degree that could get me a good job. A degree in business that I am not the biggest fan of, but which my dad forced me into because being an artist is not a real job. A degree, nevertheless. He used to say to me:

"If I am going to pay all of this money for you to go to college, at least choose something useful."

Funny.

I don't remember him paying even a penny. I worked my ass off for this money, and still, it wasn't enough.

It never is.

"So, I was willing to tell you, my dear, that we have to go to my friend's birthday party this weekend." So he was nice to me just because he needs something from me. That's what they all do. "I also have to meet some of my business partners but that's nothing your pretty little head has to worry about. You just have to go with me and look nice. I have already chosen a dress for you. I am sure you will like it. Dan won't believe his eyes when he sees you. He said he can't wait to meet you." Fucking Dan. Michael talks to me about his friends and the people he works with, expecting me to care, to show interest when I don't even know what they look like or remember their names. "Your hair looks nice like that. Keep it this way." He smiles and twirls a string of my hair around his finger.

And again, that's all I am. A pretty face. An arm candy. A trophy. Something to show off. It seems like I can't even make decisions for myself anymore. Is this what I really am? An object people use and when they don't need it anymore, they shove it away?

"Oh. Thank you for asking me. I will have to see if my schedule is free and I will give you an answer." The sarcastic comment flies out of my mouth before I can even think about what I am saying. As soon as he hears my words, his whole demeanor changes.

"Don't get bold with me," he snaps and throws me a look that I hate, dropping my hair from his finger.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, apologizing as always.

"Don't you have any friends or something to go out and leave me alone? You're always here and you can be so tiring at times. I think I already have a migraine because of you. Call that friend of yours, Rebecca a-" Not even close.

"Her name is Adelia," I say as I look up.

"I don't care what her name is. And you don't interrupt me. You have the card I gave you. Go to the mall or do something girls do," he says and storms out, finally leaving me in peace.

I wish Adelia was here. She is one of the only friends I have who doesn't use me for my money, which isn't even mine. But now, since she is dating some new boy that probably will not last, I have been put in second place.

I and Adelia met in fifth grade when we were both new students. We immediately hit it off even if we are completely opposite personalities. We have been best friends since then and I can't imagine this changing any time soon.

We are really different. She is confident, friendly and an extrovert at heart. Her biggest flaw although is that she can be very scary. She has some big anger issues, but over time she got used to my sarcasm and sense of humor and I got used to her throwing unreasonable fits. At the beginning of our friendship, I was terrified of her. Of course, she denies it and says she is fine and that I have a problem. When I tried telling her that she should try an angry issues management class, she threw a shoe at me.

I, on the other hand, am kinda awkward and there are just a few people that I can stand being around. I can't bring myself to start a conversation with someone if I know them for a short period of time and if they are the ones who do it, I start praying that they do not start small talk. I hate small talk. What are we supposed to talk about? What we ate that day? Those questions are uncomfortable, and in my case, instead of being a start for a discussion, they are a time-filler until I find a way to get out of the talk.

Since the unfortunate incident, which we never talk about, I also have had low self-esteem which is like a barrier that doesn't allow me to open myself to a point I would be satisfied with. I try to hide that by convincing others that I am feeling good in my skin and that I love my body as beautiful as it is. It would be nice if I could convince myself of this. It's not that I hate how I look, but seeing my figure in the mirror makes me feel uneasy. With all the self-love encouragement you see on the internet, it's like there are only two ways you can feel about yourself – you're either very confident or you despise your looks. These experiences are enclosed to either feeling too skinny or too fat, that your skin is too oily or too dry, and many other types of paired insecurities. The truth is that there's so much more to cover. I feel that way because just by looking at my body – my hips, my stomach, my shoulders, my thighs – an unpleasing sentiment attaches itself to me. A fragment of that memory is engraved in every crevice and part of my body. What was once mine is now taken over by hurtful experiences and loud whispers that I've tried to wash away for years. They're here with me like a tattoo that you regret, like a scar that stays with you forever.

But I've understood a long time ago that some things you just can't change, so if you don't grow to love them, then you learn to live with them by your side.

Author Note:
Hello! This is the first chapter of my story. I hope you enjoyed it!
-L