Pretty

*This is a short story I wrote that inspired a novel by the same name.*

Daddy used to tell me I was the prettiest princess he had ever seen, and right now I believed it. I held onto the watch so I wouldn’t lose it. It was so pretty. Its numbers sparkled like a princess’s crown.

I wish I was as pretty as the watch.

Mommy never tells me I’m pretty. She just cries.

But she wasn't crying tonight. She was smiling.

“Thank you for the watch,” Mommy had given it to Daddy for Christmas, and he wore it everyday until someone named Whore gave him a new one.

“You’re welcome, Mandy. Are you sure you don’t want to put it with the rest of Daddy’s stuff?” She pointed to the fire, and I watched as his plaid shirt turned black, mixing with everything else that had turned black as soon as she lit it. The air was thick, and warm, like Daddy’s hugs. I missed him. The plaid shirt was his favorite.

“No, it’s too pretty,” I said, looking at the watch again. She frowned. “What’s wrong, Mommy? Don’t you like it?” Maybe she had changed her mind and wanted it back.

“I don’t like that it belonged to him.” She watched the fire. It was so big. I felt so small.

“Why did Daddy leave? Is it because of Whore?” 


“Don’t say that word. And he left because he doesn’t want us anymore.” Her voice was soft, like when she told me a bedtime story.

“Why not?”

She looked sad. “He just doesn’t.”

And then I remembered. What if it was my fault? “Is it because I didn’t go to bed on time last week?

“No, sweet girl. It’s not because of you.”

“Oh. Why didn’t he want his stuff? Is it for the same reason he didn’t want us?”

“He wanted his stuff. But what he did was really mean, Mandy. And every mean thing has consequences. Do you understand?"

“Like when I do something bad and you take my toys away?”

“Exactly.” She hugged me. “You’re so smart."

“But you always give my toys back.”

“You’ve never done anything this bad. But you know what will make it better?”

I shook my head. She reached behind her chair and grabbed a bag of marshmallows and two sticks. “We can roast marshmallows.” She sounded happy again, and that made me smile.

“How do you do that?”

She took the clip off the bag. “It’s easy. Here.” She handed me a stick with a marshmallow on the end. She put a marshmallow on her stick, too, then stuck it in the fire.

My eyes grew wide as I watched her marshmallow turn black. It looked like Daddy’s shirt. I was suddenly afraid. The fire was so big. “Go on.” She guided my hand, until my marshmallow was in the fire, too. She pulled hers out, then blew on the small flame.

“It’s like a birthday candle.” I smiled.

“That’s right. Make a wish,” she said, as I pulled mine out and we both blew it out together.

“I wish Daddy would come back.”

“Wish for something that will actually happen.” She pulled her marshmallow off the stick and put it in her mouth. I did, too.

It was so yummy! The marshmallow was crispy, and sweet. It stuck to my teeth like candy, but I didn’t mind. “I wish for another marshmallow,” I said, smiling.

“That, I can do.”

***

There was paper all over the table. It looked like a mountain. My eyes lit up, and I could imagine the pictures I would draw. “Mommy?”

“What Mandy? Mommy’s busy.” Her head was in her hands.

“Can I have that paper?” I reached up to grab a sheet of it off the table.

“Stop it.” She pushed my hand away. “Don’t touch these, okay: It’s grown up stuff.”

“But I wanted to draw you a pretty picture. Please?”

“No, okay? Why don’t you go do something useful like play outside?”

My stuck my lower lip out, and I crossed my arms. “But I want to draw!”

“Not with this. There’s probably a notebook around here somewhere. Go draw on that.”

I stood there, watching Mommy write stuff on that grown up paper. I watched her face turn angry.

“Mommy?”

“What Amanda?” It was her not-happy voice.

“Why are you mad at the paper?”

“Because they’re bills I can’t pay.”

“What are bills?”

“Don’t worry about it. This is my problem. I’ll find a way to fix it, since your no-good Dad decided to leave us with all this debt. Just go do something. I need to figure this out.”

I didn’t know what bills were, but I knew they were bad. They had to be, if they made Mommy so upset. I didn’t want anything to do with them. They were mean, and didn’t deserve to have pretty pictures on them. So, I left and went to go find the notebook.

But I couldn’t find the notebook, and I really, really wanted to make Mommy a picture. It would make her happy, and she would forget about the bad bills.

Then I remembered all the other pictures on the wall Mommy always hung up. It was perfect. I could give her a picture, too! So I let my crayons swirl on the wall. It was so much better than a notebook, so big and my colors looked so pretty against it. I smiled, a big, wide smile. And I knew Mommy would smile, too, because it was the best picture I had ever done and she could keep it forever, just like all the others.

But she didn’t smile.

“Look, Mommy!" I said, as she walked in the room. "It’s me and you roasting marshmallows after Daddy left.” I grabbed her hand, swinging it in the space between us, my fingers warm and safe in hers.

She stared, her face blank. And I beamed, because she was so excited.

Then her face turned mad. “What have you done? Can you not go five minutes without getting in trouble?” She closed her eyes and pulled away from my hand.

That’s when I saw it: The fire was too big, bigger than the people. When we had been there for real, the fire had been smaller. That’s why she didn’t like it. It was wrong.

“I can fix it,” I said. She didn’t even look at me.

“Don’t you ever touch this wall again, do you hear me? Ever. I have so much to do, Amanda. I don’t have time for this right now.”

“The fire is too big. Sorry.”

“There shouldn’t even be a fire on the wall! What you did was bad. Very bad.”

I hung my head because she was right. It was bad. The picture was so ugly.

“I can make it prettier.” I said, but she didn’t give me a chance. She took the crayons and put them on a tall shelf, and then I had to go to my room. Mommy must want to fix it herself.

But a few minutes later, I peeked my head out, to see if she had made the picture pretty. It was the same, though and all Mommy was doing was staring at it, her hand touching the ugly fire, like she was thinking, the way I did before I decided which Barbie I wanted to play with. It looked more important, though, like grown up thinking.

She must be deciding how to fix it. I went back to my room, sad that I had drawn something so ugly.

***

I was sitting at the table, fingers flat out in front of me. I was a big girl now. Only babies messed up their nail polish. Right now it was perfect, and it was going to stay that way.

Mommy brushed her hand too close to the bottle of remover, causing the purple liquid to spill across the table, drip onto the tile floor.

I gasped, starting to hop up to grab a rag like she had always told me to do if something spilled. But I couldn’t. Big girls didn’t mess up their nail polish.

That’s when I noticed Mom wasn’t going to get a towel, but was instead on the other side of the kitchen, staring at the picture I had drawn yesterday. I had redrawn the picture I had put on the wall, since Mommy wiped it off. I watched the remover drip. Maybe she didn’t know she had knocked something over.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?” A small smile reached her lips.

“It spilled.” Very carefully, I pointed to the puddle on the table.

“Oh, that’s okay. It’s not a big deal.” She held up the picture. “This is so pretty Mandy.

You’re such a good little artist.

She liked the picture when it wasn’t on the wall. “I’m not little anymore, Mommy. Remember, I’m five now.”

“That’s right, you’re my big girl!” She dropped down on her knees next to me still holding the picture. “And you know what big girls get to do?”

My eyes lit up. “What?”

“They get to keep secrets.”

“Secrets!” She nodded. “You’ve never told me a secret before. I really am a big girl!”

“Yes, you are, sweetie. Now, here’s the secret, okay. It’s really important.” I sat up straighter. I wanted to be the best secret-keeper ever. “You see this pretty picture in my hand?” I nodded. “Now, I’m going to lay it down, but if anyone asks you say that you put it down, okay? You were holding it, and you laid it down. That’s all you have to say.”

“Why?” That was the secret? “Mommy, that’s a silly secret. Tell me a better one.”

“No, baby, this is a super-duper big secret. I know it doesn’t make sense, but you’ll just have to trust me, okay? It’s a big, big secret. Bigger than me not telling you what I get you for Christmas.”

“Wow. Okay. I won’t tell.” I paused. “But Mommy, why can’t I lay it down?”

“Because I don’t want you to get close to the stove. It’s hot right now. Remember what happened the last time you got too close to the stove when it was hot?”

I nodded, and looked at the scar on my pinkie. After I touched the stove, Daddy had held me on his lap while I cried. He kept telling me that even with my hurt finger, I was still a pretty princess.” Since Daddy left, Mommy hadn’t told me I was pretty. Maybe I was only pretty when Daddy was around, and when he left he took my pretty with him. Maybe he gave it to Whore.

Then I thought about what she had asked me to say, “but I’m not supposed to lie. That’s bad.”

“You’re right, Mandy, lying is bad. But this isn’t lying. Not really. You’re just telling someone a story. It’s like how I always tell you a bedtime story. Those aren’t real, but I’m not lying. Lying hurts people. This is helping Mommy. Can you do that? Can you keep this secret?”

“Yes! I promise! I’ll never, ever, tell!” Without thinking, I hugged her and then pulled my hands back. Tears pricked my eyes when I saw the smudge on my pinky nail. “Oops.” But then I remembered. I have a secret. A really big secret. Nothing makes me more of a big girl than that.

Without another word she got up, and put the picture down next to the pot on the stove.

“Who laid this down, Mandy?” She said, pointing to the picture.

“I did.” I smile wide, proud that I’ve kept the secret so far.

“I love you, Mandy.”

“I love you, too, Mommy.”

That’s when I noticed the dark spot on the paper, spreading into the picture of the house I drew. It grew. Getting darker. And larger. Like the puddle of remover still dripping.

I listened to the dripping for a few seconds. And then saw a flame on the paper. My pretty picture was on fire. My eyes grew wide, and I tried to scream, but I stopped, because it was so pretty, like a birthday candle. It smelled like roasted marshmallows. The fire was so orange and bright. I decided right then that fire was my favorite color. I hated the color pink, now.

“Mommy?” I asked, just in case this wasn’t okay. It wasn’t my birthday. That wasn’t a candle. I hoped she would let the fire stay, because it was so pretty.

The fire stayed, but we didn’t. She took my hand and quickly led me out the door, far away from the pretty colors. My nails were messed up, but I didn’t care. Next time I wanted to paint them the color of fire.

We were standing by the curve--the place Mommy always taught me to go if something bad happened--when I remembered Daddy’s watch.

It was laying on my dresser, next to my bed. I couldn’t leave it! It was so pretty, the fire would make it ugly. And Daddy would be mad if he knew I had left it. I couldn’t leave the watch like he had left us.

I ran back toward the house. Mommy was screaming, but I barely heard her. I could hear the wind in my ears though. I was going so fast I felt like I was flying. I flew through the door, only thinking about the watch. But then I stopped.

It was so pretty. I watched as the fire got bigger. It spread, like it was running. It was faster than me. It went down the cabinet. Across the floor. Toward me.

“Amanda!” Mommy yelled then held her arms out when she saw me. I stepped away, finally remembering why I was here. I opened my mouth to tell her that I was going to my room, but those words never came.

The fire and the dripping collided. Mommy screamed again for me from across the room. She sounded scared, like I did when I got lost in the grocery store once. But I couldn’t answer. Those words I wanted to speak turned into a scream. There was heat. There was a bigger fire, bigger than I’d ever seen. There was burning as the fire and dripping collided with me.

Then there was blackness.

***

Before I was a big girl, I thought there was a monster hiding under my bed. I didn’t know I would turn into the monster, but now my face is pink (and not Barbie pink, an ugly pink), and it stings like the time I touched the stove. But worse.

Now, I look like the monster.

Mommy brings me a new stuffed animal everyday at the hospital. Most of them are pink. I hate the color pink. I’ve even stopped using all the pink crayons in the box.

I don’t draw fire anymore. I hate fire.

And I don’t care that the watch is still sitting beside my bed. If Whore had not given Daddy that watch, maybe he would still be here. Then I wouldn’t have gone back into the house, and I would still be that pretty princess. But princesses don’t have scars on their faces. Maybe their pinkies, but not their faces.

I hate scars. And I hate Daddy for taking my “pretty.”

Title: Pretty

Genre: Young Adult Fiction

Age range: 14+

Word count: 2,556

Author: Taylor Neal

Good fit: This story offers the unique perspective of a five-year-old thrust into the center of very adult problems, while still appealing to young adults with a darker layer of how desperation can turn disastrous.

Hook: A brokenhearted child. A mother's breakdown. Dire consequences.

Synopsis: Her name was Whore, and now  Daddy was gone because he didn’t like Mommy or her anymore. That was the story five-year-old Amanda got when her father left. Struggling to deal with the aftermath amidst her mother’s unhinged emotions, she finds herself entangled in emotional scars of her own. As the pressures and bills mount, Amanda’s mother makes a choice with dire consequences, leaving Amanda to now grapple with more than one type of scar.

Target Audience: Readers 14-25 with interests in psychology, the impact of relationship conflicts on emotions, and unique character perspectives.

Bio: Taylor is an aspiring novelist who enjoys planning her next adventures outside of Greenbrier, Arkansas and trying to talk herself out of adopting every stray animal. When getting her B.A. in both Psychology and Creative Writing, Taylor had a wide range of interests from studying abroad to judging poetry for her university’s literary magazine. Taylor was published in the Vortex Magazine of Literature and Art in both her poetry and short stories. She then went on to obtain her Master's in Counseling and now enjoys working with kids. Taylor loves to create eloquent pieces with a darker, psychological twist showcasing the resiliency of humanity and the emotional connections created through tragedy.

Platform: Taylor is passionate about rescuing animals and encouraging emotional health while erasing the stigma of mental illness.

Personality: Taylor may come in a small package, but is mixed with determination, compassion, a plethora of random facts, and a tiny bit of sarcasm (okay, a lot of sarcasm).

Please note: This short story is the inspiration for a novel I am writing by the same name. The novel includes three different perspectives (including Amanda's) with each character dealing with tragedies connected in an unsuspecting way.