Mom’s obsession with what people
thought was gradually beginning to spiral out of control. Even dad thought so.
She was quickly becoming a total control-freak. I wasn’t enjoying coming home
to have to hunt through the bin-bag of old clothes to find whatever offending
piece of Kat-customised clothing I’d noticed was missing and figured that it
had been destined for a rubbish heap in some dump.

I’d already lost my blue long-sleeved
tee-shirt with the glittery picture of a cat on it to that particular fate. And
it had taken me ages to draw that cat.

Mom didn’t like the amount of time I
spent drawing, reading or writing.

“You should get out more and meet some
new friends!”

She’d told me on several occasions.

“I’ve already got friends. Well, one
friend. It’s okay though, if the other girls think I’m strange ‘cause I’ve lost
my brother and sister then they’re not worth talking to.”

I said, head lowered over a
spiral-bound notebook.

“Well, maybe if you tried to be more
like them, talk about things like clothes – not your kind of clothes – stuff
like make-up, fashion, pop-stars, models. Just be like them.”

Mom said.

She didn’t realise how angry that short
statement made me. My own mother wanted me to be one of the countless pink
clones that ruled the school like dictators in designer outfits. The girls who
punished the people like me, who thought for themselves and didn’t let their
minds be programmed to do whatever a fashion magazine told them to do.

“I like being me. I like being a bit
different. I hate models, I hate pop music, well, apart from Lady Gaga, I don’t
want to be one of those…those…those clones!”

I snapped.

“There’s no need to be so defensive. I
just don’t want you walking around with your head stuck in a notebook and
looking so different when you could be so pretty if you tried!”

She snapped back, every bit as
defensive. I wanted to tell her to
stop being so defensive, mimicking her condescending, irritatingly superior
tone but I didn’t dare. I suddenly loathed the word pretty. The word that made
so many girls destroy themselves, starve themselves, change themselves so that
they fitted the description of that particular week’s issue of
Anorexic-Chic-weekly or whatever the hell it was.

The End

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