Following me into the bathroom he grabbed my face and pushed it up against the mirror.
“Juss look at yorself, you f-ing tart,” he spat his words in my ear.
“I – I… can’t see, too close,” I mumbled.
He pulled me back and loosened his grip on my arm.
“That crap on yer eyes.”
Staring at my reflection I saw the face I had spent time perfecting five hours earlier. The neat eyeliner and subtle foundation. The lipstick that matched my nails and the eye-shadow that complimented the hazel of my iris. The girl glaring back could have been my doppelganger. She looked like me but I felt removed from her – verbal abuse hardens your soul until you find it difficult to recognise what you have become.
As he walked out the door he turned and scathingly muttered quietly, “Ge’ yorself a real man not that little squirt from down the road.”
A tear cleared a path through the rouge as it tricked down my cheek.
It wasn’t easy being young. Finding your way and searching for yourself at the same time.
I took a tissue from my pocket, ran it under the tap and smeared the make-up across my face. Now the mirror depicted reality, I looked and felt like shit.
Once in bed I curled up into a ball, hugging my knees. I had to leave home. I couldn’t bear to live in the same house as my step father any longer.
This tale has it’s roots in fact but is fictionalised in an attempt to put across a moment in time picture.
I wrote it about 2 weeks ago but left it in draft as I couldn’t get it quite how I wanted. Cara’s draft folder challenge inspired me to work on it again.
Let me explain – My Mum remarried when I was thirteen and my stepfather did verbally abuse me for a few years when I was growing up. He would shout many horrid names at me including tart. Complaining I wore too much make-up and wouldn’t let my boyfriend Vic into the house. It was painful, so I would try and remove my heart from the situation.
When I commented on a post of Kayla’s recently I was reminded of his dreadful behaviour and then shortly after seeing the KOTW prompt I remembered the young me running off to the bathroom and hardly recognising my reflection – tears, make-up smeared.
So I wrote this tale, better out than in. I also find that when I write from a non-fiction point of view I tend to distance myself from the post. It is odd how I can put more emotion and feeling into a fictional account of a life event.
So much fiction has a foot in reality…
Header image from Pixabay.