Page 147 of Branded
Ones that made me relatable.
Ones that I could tuck away without effort.
Because the rooms I allowed Hazel and Pru into weren’t the basement or the attic or the shadowy little eaves where blackness seemed to cling. I could share them, could rid myself of them.
The rest, the ones with the big, gaping maws, the sharp teeth and claws, the power to frighten me so thoroughly that I’d crash to my knees, beg them to leave me alone…I attempted to keep them locked away.
So when I cried, it wasn’t about the baby demons. My tears were for the biggest ones, those straining at the chains, threatening to break free and ravage, leaving only waste and destruction in their wake.
My makeup hid that.
Expertly contoured cheeks and nose, forehead and jaw, fake lashes every day, perfectly applied liner that had taken me an age to learn how to get just right. Cream shadows with just a hint of glimmer. Brows filled in to frame my eyes. Lips painted my typical bright red.
To hide.
To make sure no one had a reason to find fault, to look deeper, to get angry about.
A perfect representation of everything I was supposed to be.
My clothes completed that image.
They were flattering and sexy, but not too much.
Because if she looked perfect, he would leave her alone, wouldn’t notice her, wouldn’t hit her. Because if I do the same, I’ll be safe too.
“Enough,” I whispered.
But I couldn’t stop myself from studying my reflection, from adding just a tiny bit more blush, one more coat of mascara.
Then I moved back into my family room, to that table Pru and Marcel had set up for me, gaze locking on the empty glass, and before I headed into the spare bedroom where Pru had also moved some clothes and shoes so that I wouldn’t have to risk the stairs, just in case, I went back into the kitchen, filled the glass, and drank it down.
I was so going to have to pee every five minutes.
But at least I was upright.
For a non-fashionista, Pru had done a good job.
My friend was the least girlie of our trio, eschewing dresses and heels for sneakers, sweats, and T-shirts, but she’d pulled together some Beth-level outfits, even minus all the tight.
Of course, tight was relative.
Because even my period pants were tight on my belly, and my normal shirts made boobalicious seem conservative.
All of which was a problem.
Because my period pants were my biggest pants, which meant that shopping was going to need to commence, and it was going to have to commence today.
Oh, the humanity.
Lips twitching, I moved hangers until I found something that would do.
I had one pair of maternity leggings and I could pair that with my blue sweater that spent the majority of its time slipping off one shoulder. I had to be careful with blues sometimes, between my skin tone—olive—and my hair—a bright red that had settled into an auburn over the years—but this shade was perfect, and I loved its slouchy, cozy feel.
Normally, though, I reserved it for days in.
Today, it would have to do for a shopping extravaganza.
And—I turned, studied the shoes on the bed—I’d wear it with my chunky boots.
