Page 5 of Wanted

Her lip curls up with disgust, and I know I’m done for.

Stomping so hard I fear her white heels might crack against the floor, she marches up to me then grabs me by the ponytail.

With a vicious yank, she forces me to spin back around to face my mirror.

“It’s a mess, Alena,” she snarls as she rips the elastic from my hair, taking a few chunks with it. “All you’ve done is create more work for me!”

Stabbing her fingers into my hair, she yanks them down, ripping more roots from my scalp as they snag on the knots she created.

“And on this day of all days!” she complains, her voice growing louder with every word.

Making my eyes go wide to keep my tears at bay, I watch the tight, angry expression on her face transform into one of fury.

My chest aching, I snap my eyes to the pictures tucked into the gold frame of my mirror. Pictures of Daddy and me. Happy, with smiles on our faces.

The pain I can take. I’m used to it.

Every day, she finds some way to hurt me.

It’s her disappointment and hate that makes me cry.

Why doesn’t she love me?

Is it because I’m an idiot?

Will she love me if I become smarter? If I somehow find a way to make myself better?

If I become like her? Never making a mistake and doing everything perfectly.

I love her. Even when she hurts me, I love her.

Why am I not like her?

Is it because I’m not beautiful? Because I look like Daddy? With my pale skin and dark hair?

I have her blue eyes, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.

If my hair was blonde like hers, would she be able to love me? Would I be worthy?

Should I dye my hair to make her happy?

“Stupid little brat… You can’t even get this right. What kind of little girl can’t do their own hair?” my mother nearly shouts as she picks up my brush and roughly pulls it through my hair.

Intentionally or unintentionally grinding the bristles into my scalp.

“If today wasn’t so important…” she warns.

Grabbing my hair up in one hand, she furiously brushes my ends.

I think half of my hair comes out, falling upon the shoulders of my dress.

But I bite the inside of my cheek harder, tasting blood.

Each pull of the brush making her angrier, my mother tears into me. “Why did I get stuck with such an idiot for a daughter?What have I done to deserve this? Am I being punished for something?”

The next couple of pulls of the brush are so hard I wobble on my feet. Out of instinct, I reach out and grab the edge of my vanity to keep from falling over.

My mother suddenly stops and holds the brush up.

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