“I’m sorry Ma’am. He’s gone.” The doctor says to me.
“N-no.” I whisper defiantly. “No, he’s in there. He’s just sleeping.”
The doctor shakes her head. “Honey, I know this is hard-”
She tries to pull me into her arms, but I shove her away. “Now, Scarlet, that isn’t the way to act around someone as kind as Doctor Nelson. Say sorry.”
Mom Mother’s voice is firm, strained and forced. She couldn’t care less if I pushed the doctor. She only wants to look good for the patients around the waiting room.
That was the day my life ‘ended.’ My mother, Jasmine Sawyer, was an abusive jerk. She was cold hearted and only cared about money. She used dad for money, and when she got pregenant with me, her demands became higher, ‘Baby, can I get the new IPhone?’ or ‘Honey, the girls and I are going out tonight. Can I get a new dress?’
Same ‘ol, same ‘ol. I, on the other hand, never asked for much. Simple stuff - art supplies, hoodies, new books. What a normal human would ask for.
Mother had bleached hair that was cut to a bob, gray eyes, and was skinny-to-the-point-you’re-worried. She wore pencil skirts and blouses that are entirly to small for her.
I had butt-length hair that was raven black, hazel eyes, and have a slight hourglass shape, but not to the point it’ll make someone feel like I should eat more. I wear hoodies and jeans or leggings in the house, but out in public heals, cute shirts, and jeggings or jorts. Sometimes I wear skirts, but they’re the floor-length ones with the back longer than the front.
Dad was like me, only wearing formal fitting clothes when neccesary. I got none of mother’s additude or habits. My only habit is getting distracted by something else easily.