The Monster Behind Lipstick Love that Pink Revlon 435

"I hope that you can read my story and know you're not alone..."-Stacy Mazzara

I was lying in bed, pretending to be asleep. It was 12 pm on a Saturday. Most Saturdays I worked or had swim practice, but it was the school's designated winter break. I did not know where in the house she was, but she was still home. She was a monster that put on a layer of makeup, presenting her fake self to the outside, but her real self to those of us who were her prisoners on the inside. I can still feel the ground shake the way she would almost run, stomping down the hallway to scream about everything that did not please her. She smelled of Chanel number 5, and she made you know that she was better in every possible way.

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"For seventeen years, I had lived in HER house and there was not a place on my body that did not have wounds from her torturing tongue."

My mind was racing as well as my heart, while sweat saturated my pillowcase. Normally she had left already, I impatiently said to myself, why does she torture me like this. If I opened that door, surely she would scream at me or make me do a thousand and tasks she is capable of doing herself. My insides were twisted, and I had to pee so bad. But I forced myself to wait, although I did not want to.

Finally, I heard the garage door open and close, and for the first time since I woke up my blood pressure was calming and I could breath. I was able to actually leave my room in peace. No longer a hostage in my own room, I went downstairs to start my day.

Grandpa was sitting at the table, so I knew we would have a good discussion. I started to prepare my meal and I asked him if he wanted pancakes. Before I even finished putting the plates on the table, I heard the garage door open abruptly, but I did not know which grandmother would come through the door. Would it be the one who tells me she loves me with exceptions such as I am not that pretty with my hair straightened and I need to lose weight? Or would it be the executioner who tells me that this house is not my house, and I have lived here because of her grace? My mind rotated a mile a minute as anticipation built.

The side door opened and the screech of her voices’ high pitched trill radiated off the wall like nails on a chalkboard. She stormed in furiously because the hair salon was closed, and she was not able to get her hair done. Now we all had hell to pay as a consequence of her unfortunate experience. There was nowhere to seek refuge, and I could not run past her. My grandpa was sick with Parkinson's disease, leaving him defenseless. He once was a strong, unencumbered man until his condition left him helpless. We were at her mercy, bracing for her moment of fury. We remained the victims of her frustrations until the entirety of her frustrations had been inflicted upon us. She would