Ugly Kind of Beautiful

            It was the clicking of my mother’s trademark red stilettos that woke me from my shallow sleep.  I swung my legs around, buried my eleven-year-old toes in the deep, lush carpet and snuck into the hallway.  My mother was at our kitchen table- red oak with enough space for three times the people that used it- and held an unlit cigarette in her manicured hand.  I watched as she brought it to her lips and then away again, to and away, to and away, as if trained.

            I gazed in admiration and envy at the voluminous auburn curls cascading down her back.  My own locks were a pathetic, dusty brown color and fell in stick-straight, lackluster strands.  My mother was fabulous.

            “What are you doing up?” she asked, still facing the other way.  I quickly hid behind the china cabinet, but to no avail.  “I still see you, Laeticia. Come here.”

            I shyly made my way to the kitchen table, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

            “Look at me,” she said softly. I did. Her deep brown eyes wore a warm expression; her cherry-painted lips formed a smile around her dazzling teeth.

            “I never really loved your father,” she divulged for what had to be the thousandth time.  There was not a trace of rancor in her voice. “That b*****d hurt me more times than I can count.”

            Her gaze shifted from me, down to her hands and then back to me again.  I remained silent. 

            She leaned forward, coming merely inches away from my face.  The scent of alcohol and cigar smoke emanated from her tongue and hair.  Her sparkling brown eyes, now bitter, bore into my soul.

            “Do you know how it feels,” she asked, pausing between each word, “to be abused every single day?”

            Yes! I wanted to scream at her, but the words seemed trapped in my throat. Yes, but you were too damn selfish to notice.

            Her pale, thin hand reached out and hit me, hard, on my face. I didn’t budge.

            “Do you understand how that feels, Laeticia? Do you?” She was screaming now, getting to her feet and coming to my side of the table.  Her form-fitting black cocktail dress shimmered as she moved.

            Mon Dieu, ma mère est trop belle, I thought. And she was such an ugly type of beautiful.

            Her slim hands wrapped themselves around my throat.  She held on tightly, staring intensely into my eyes. “I never loved your father,” she said through her teeth.

            Slowly, her grip loosened and her warm expression returned.  When she turned and left me alone in the kitchen, I felt dizzy, dazzled by her loveliness.

Reviews

[...]

. i so agree with paul ... you negotiate complexities with a lot of skill and sensitivity and emerge compassionate ... you've etched the protagonist with immense care ... and that's why she's so beautiful ... she can see things ... perceive, comprehend and process ... your way with words is awe-inspiring ...

[paul]

you are an absolutely amazing writer. this stuff flows like water. shines like sunlight.
and how dark , twisted and beautiful

[Andrew]

I completely agree with "..." (for lack of a better name) because I can usually never make it through a story request without losing focus. This story hooks you in from the beginning with a lot of detail and vivid imagery and leads into a more sensitive subject that takes the reader through many different emotions. Great story! I would also like to see more

[Thomas Fleet]

First, I would like to say that I am surprised I read through the whole thing. :P
(That is a good thing.)
I have a hard time paying attention to any story unless it really hooks me in or draws my attention, and this seems to have done that.
Very, very detailed! Also, filled with much emotion.
I got angry, scared, and sad during this whole thing. No happy feelings,
but I'm sure this wasn't meant to be happy at all. Good story... I'd like to see more. :)