In the dark walls of a house that had once been called a home, resides little of real human life. But within the life it had once held, is a teenage girl's bedroom.
Laila Mosiac. A seventeen-year-old girl who cannot wait for her birthday to come fast enough.
The walls a shade of blue, fading flowers her once lovely mother had painted for her when she was young. The days when her mother would hum happy songs, voice full of love. Torn up band posters stuck to her walls. She had always wished to be a rockstar.
Her vanity holds a shattered mirror, cracked by a violent fist. The same fist that had shattered her heart long ago. She had grown attached to that broken mirror, just like she had grown attached to that fist.
A fist of anger. A fury let out of love. A twisted love, she supposes, but it is still love to her.
It is still from the man who used to braid her hair. Who had learned to braid hair for her.
Her bed a twin sized mattress; she had long stopped asking for a new bed. At least the springs have yet to pop. She is grateful for that much.
Sitting on the bed, is Laila. Brushing her long ginger hair as she hums softly to herself. Her parents are not to be home tonight, so the house is silent.
It is the only time that it is silent, yet the silence is not odd to her, but instead it is welcomed.
As of her current time, she is getting ready for a picnic date with her best friend, Violet. Laila has a baby blue midi dress on. It had been a gift to her, one that she had avoided ever wearing as she knows her father would get upset.
Pretty dresses do not suit her, he says.
Those words have always cut deeper than any knife ever could.
When she had been little, he was the same man who claimed he would fight gods for her. That he would balance the world if it began to tip so she would never fall off.
She had been "his girl," but now she's just a child with the same blood and last name.
She has always loved her last name, because it was her father's. She used to cry as a child at the thought of getting married. She didn't want to lose the last name she latches onto as if the world is crashing down.
It must be that his last name is proof that she is still his daughter. Her father's daughter. That maybe if she keeps it long enough, she will be his girl again.
It is a lost hope. A ladder missing its steps. She is aware the more she climbs, the more inevitable and painful the fall, but she for some reason does not want to stop.
She does not want to change ladders, not even to a brand new one.
She rummages through her makeup drawer. Grabbing out a lipstick, a deep red shade, to put on. Laila, in the past, had stolen this lipstick from her mother.
Her mother was a beautiful woman; she still is. She had a gentle hue around her at all times. A soft soul with the same ginger hair as her.
Her mother only wore lipstick. Maybe blush or mascara at times if they were going somewhere too fancy. She had just been that kind of woman.
Laila looked up to her mother like most daughters would. Her mother had pretended to not know where her lipstick had gone and bought a new one back then.
Now, her mother accuses her of stealing anything of hers. Jewelry, clothes, makeup, money. She tells Laila that she does not have enough makeup to steal to make up for such a face. That Laila should be ashamed of what she turned out to be.
But Laila cannot bring herself to hate her face. It is still a copy of her mother's face, and her mother is a gorgeous woman. Prettier than any model in a magazine. At least to Laila.
Laila's entire body she got from her parents, and she loves her body for the most part.
There are things she hates, her bones, her skin, the scars she had inflicted on it, and her brain.
There is always something to hate, but there is more she believes she should love.
Even if she may not really love it.
Laila has better things to do than stare at a reflection that is not hers in a fractured mirror.
She has to meet Violet in the park.