Chapter 6
Chapter Six
MONROE
What is your story?
All evening, that question played through my head, keeping me up late into the night until exhaustion swept me under.
I still don’t have an answer.
Everyone has a story…a tale to be told.
I don’t; I have pain. Obligation. Heartache. The knowledge that I’m not good enough…
For a father who left when I was a little girl because of my mother’s obsession with the pageant world. He just couldn’t take it anymore.
For the mother who is present but desires someone more like her.
When I was younger, the pageants were fun—a way to bond with my mother and dress up like a princess.
Around the time I turned ten and the prize money grew exponentially with every contest, it became less and less like a dream and more of a duty.
No part of me enjoyed strutting around the stage in bejeweled dresses or barely-there bikinis, being stared at and judged for my beauty.
Years ago, I realized I had to make a change, to figure out who I am. And maybe being here in Montana with Shaw, I can do that. He’s the only person who doesn’t seem to care about my appearance or how I dress.
I caught the interest in his eyes yesterday, seconds before he grabbed me and kicked Mom and Claire off his property.
It was that spark that made my belly quiver and my heart flutter.
There were glimpses of it at dinner last night as well.
I could tell he was trying to get me to eat more without adding pressure.
Leaving before I was done felt out of character for a man like him.
But he knew what he was doing because I did manage a few more bites of salad and stew, even if I didn’t finish anything.
When I’d come upon the peach cobbler, I nearly drooled with the desire to eat it.
Anything with peaches has always been my weakness.
It’s my favorite fruit and flavor. When I finally decided to grab the plate, my mother’s voice reared its ugly head and reminded me how ugly I am when I become bloated from sugar, and I practically ran away.
When I woke up this morning, I forced myself to lie in bed, staying there until I couldn’t any longer, because here, I have no obligations, and for the first time in recent memory, I can do something for myself.
Slipping from under the covers, I walk to my suitcase and pause when I automatically reach for my ballet slippers and leotard.
If I’m truly going to find myself, breaking free of the routine and regimens of my old life is a must. Starting with working my body to the point of exhaustion.
Ballet can become a means of fun again. I can dance because I love it, not out of obligation.
Grabbing, instead, a pair of jeans, a sweater, and my toiletries, I quietly pad down the hallway to the bathroom.
Closing the door, I face the mirror and acknowledge that if I want to move forward with figuring my life out, I need to strip the bleach from my hair—return to my roots, so to speak.
I can’t remember the last time I saw my natural dark-brown hair color.
As I pull out the baby oil and cotton pads to help remove my fake lashes, I stare at my reflection.
I never thought of myself as vain before, but the more I look, the harder it becomes to find any flaws in my appearance.
I have brilliant blue eyes, the perfect button nose, high cheekbones, and naturally plump lips.
I’m every pageant girl’s worst nightmare and every agent's wet dream. My discipline and lack of interest in behind-the-scenes drama have made me a sought-after commodity with modeling agencies and even a couple of casting directors in the past. But every girl I’ve tried to befriend hates me, only ever seeing me as competition, which, sure, I am, but I’m also human.
And being so alone has taken its toll on me, so no matter what happens next, I know I can never compete again.
Life in the spotlight was never something I aspired to, but without the pageants and the moderate fame that comes with it, what can I possibly do?
First thing is to alter my looks drastically. It’ll help avoid temptation in the future.
Reaching into my makeup bag, I take out the little cuticle scissors, and without thought, my hand takes over. Placing the sharp tip to the flesh under my eye, I drag it down, watching as the skin splits and blood slowly drips down my cheeks, splashing into the sink.
What did you just do, Marilyn!
My mother’s disgusted voice reverberates in my head as I stare, transfixed, while crimson droplets continue to run. Nobody’ll want a girl with a scar on her face—especially one so long and visible. I cut in deep enough that it’ll leave a mark, but not so deep that it’ll require medical attention.
Grabbing a soft cloth from the place under the cupboard that Shaw did last night, I press it to the open wound.
Tears stream unheeded down my face as the realization of what I’ve done kicks in.
Wracking sobs escape my body and buckle my knees, and as I fall to the floor, the cloth drops, and I place my head against my bent knees, trying to draw in a deep breath that refuses to expand my chest.
It’s not until warm arms wrap around me that I realize how loud I must be. “Hey…shh. It’s alright.” Shaw’s deep drawl loosens the boa constrictor around my chest, but everything else is the same.
I’m broken, and there’s no fixing me.
Not now.
Not ever.