The Briannas
*
Visualizing one’s demons.
I took Monday off to give myself a calm, relaxing day after the chaos of my birthday. Robert and I had spent Sunday cuddling and enjoying a peaceful, sober day. This morning, I tried convincing him to skip school, but he shook his head with a grin and said, “I pay to go to school.”
No, sir, that’s Sallie Mae. But I digress.
At 9:30 a.m., I finally dragged myself out of bed, brewed a large pot of coffee, and grabbed a scone from the counter.
I settled at the dining room table, scrolling through missed messages.
Birthday wishes flooded my social media from friends I hadn’t heard from in years.
My siblings’ texts ranged from “Happy Birthday” to one random one from Eddy: Do yo u own a curling iron?
I rolled my eyes and quickly replied to Edward, Yes, why?
There was no response as I checked my voicemail. Two messages from my mom were waiting for me.
The first played: “Hi, Brianna, it’s your mom. I wish you a happy birthday, but you must be busy. Will I see you tomorrow?”
I cringed, then hit play on the second: “Hey, Brianna, it’s your mom. I didn’t hear back from you yesterday. I’m assuming you’re okay. I bought you a birthday gift, so please come see me.”
Sighing, I hesitated. I knew I should call Martha back. She had called twice, and I had ignored both. She was dying. But deep down, I knew any conversation would be brief on birthday wishes and long on guilt trips. Instead, I bit my lip and decided to text her.
Hey Mom, I’m sorry I missed your calls. It was a hectic weekend. I can come for breakfast on Saturday. Can we go to that little diner with outdoor seating? It’s our treat.
Her response arrived almost instantly:
Okay, that sounds good.
I stared at the message, shaking my head. That “Okay” dripped with unspoken disapproval—no enthusiasm, no “That sounds lovely.” Just the silent rebuke I had grown accustomed to.
I finished my scone and carried my coffee to the office. I had no energy for guilt-tripping or picking fights today. Instead, I focused on a more cathartic task: tackling Paige’s assignment.
I rose on my tippy toes to grab the canvas pads from the top shelf. Paige had said naming the different versions of myself might help me confront them. I wasn’t sure it would work, but painting them? That I could do.
I glanced at the drawing table Robert had gifted me for my birthday. Beautiful and thoughtful, it reminded me of his unwavering support. I tilted the table, arranged the canvas sheets, and prepared to map out the “Briannas.”
After setting up my pencils and slipping on my headphones, I let calming indie folk music fill my ears. At the top of the first sheet, I wrote in cursive:
Brianna Soot
I sketched a simple female figure—trousers, a T-shirt, a long ponytail, and a blank face. She felt like an outline, an unfinished canvas. Shaking my head, I set the sheet aside and moved on.
Next, I started on Perfect Brianna . Her figure emerged thinner than mine, with long, smooth, slightly curled hair.
She wore an ankle-length dress, heels, and an apron.
I added soft white, pink, and pale-yellow tones, bringing her to life.
A glowing light behind her created an almost holy aura.
She looked like a Barbie doll raised on conservative talk radio—flawless blonde hair, bright pink lips, and piercing blue eyes.
I snorted and placed the painting on Robert’s desk to dry. Perfect Brianna was beautiful, poised, and everything my mother wanted me to be. But she wasn’t me. I didn’t want to be her.
One by one, I brought other versions of myself to life.
Weird Brianna stood awkwardly with thick plastic glasses, greasy hair, and a hunched posture.
Manic Pixie Dream Girl Bree wore knee-high socks and schoolgirl attire, clutching a copy of Pulp Fiction .
Ms. Suburban Brianna sported a sharp blazer, heels, and a high ponytail, with her hand glued to her ever-buzzing cell phone.
I sketched my two fantasy personas on the same page: White Trash Brianna and Chic City Brianna .
White Trash Brianna lounged in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt from a local bar, a cigarette in hand, surrounded by five unruly kids.
Chic City Brianna, her polar opposite, exuded calm and confidence in black skinny jeans, red heels, and a white blouse.
Even as I drew her, I felt a pang of longing.
She represented a version of myself I admired—a dream I’d abandoned.
All the Briannas had something redeeming. Brianna Soot dreamed big. Perfect Brianna was resourceful. Weird Brianna was unapologetic. Manic Pixie Bree was witty. Even White Trash Brianna carried a rebellious, survivalist grit.
All but one—the one I hated most. Unlike the others, this one had no redeeming quirks—just chaos wrapped in a devilish grin.
My pencil touched the canvas, and I wrote in heavy graphite lines, Shadow Bree/Emily .
She embodied my persona when I drank too much. When men walked over and offered me a cigarette or a drink in those emotional pits, I’d say I was Emily, the name I’d drunkenly use when talking to strangers. She posed as a shield from shame but was just gasoline on the fire.
I sketched her with dark-brown hair, tanned skin, and a mischievous grin. A beer bottle dangled from one hand and a cigarette from the other. As the figure took shape, a sickening realization hit me. She looked like my mother—like a distorted echo of us both.
“Fucking of course,” I muttered as I set it aside.
I walked out of the office to wash my hands, splashing water onto my face. Before I started seeing Paige, I would have said, “ Yes, everything is Martha’s fault. You are free! ”
Now I knew that while Martha may have created this monster, I was the one who kept acting on it. I was the one who gave it power.
Emily didn’t help or protect me. She wasn’t someone I strived to be, nor was she how I wanted others to see me. She was the version that reared her head to destroy my health, safety, and relationships. I needed to figure out how to conquer her before she conquered everything I loved.
My phone buzzed. Edward had texted: I saw a video showing how to fry bacon with a curling iron. It’s called a “pigtail.” I will bring it back tomorrow.
I sighed. I needed to destroy Emily—and now this teenager’s dreams.
I texted back: Absolutely not.