Chapter 1: The Art of the Cut
“You’re not wearing that to the rehearsal dinner, are you?”
My mother’s voice sliced through the humid air of the guest room like a blade. It wasn’t a question; it was an indictment. I was standing in front of the warped mirror attached to the back of the closet door, tugging gently at the hem of the only decent dress I had brought with me.
It was ruined. All my clothes had holes in them. Precise, deliberate slashes, just big enough to render the fabric unwearable, just cruel enough to make me question my own sanity for a split second.
But the moment I had lifted the lid of my luggage that morning, smelling the distinct scent of lavender detergent mixed with the musty odor of this house, I knew it wasn’t an accident. The tears in the fabric were too clean. Too intentional.
Now, she stood behind me, arms folded, the same smug tilt to her chin she had worn when I was eight and she told me I’d never be as pretty as my cousin Charlotte. “This,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the shredded navy fabric dangling from my hands, “actually suits you better than what you usually wear. It makes a statement.” She paused, letting the word hang in the air before delivering the strike.
“Desperate. Honest.”
I turned slowly. My pulse was thrumming in my neck, a hot, frantic rhythm, but I forced my face to remain a mask of stone.
My voice was low, steady, trained by years of holding back tears in this very room. “Why would you do this?”
My mother didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch.
She just looked at me with the bored expression of someone watching a dull television show. “You always make everything about you, Hannah. It’s your brother’s weekend.
It’s Brandon’s big moment. Maybe it’s time you accepted your place.”
My Aunt Carol cackled from the doorway. She was leaning against the frame, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand despite it being barely eleven in the morning.
Her teeth were stained slightly purple. “She’s right, sweetie,” Carol slurred slightly, her eyes glittering with malice. “Honestly, maybe with a few holes in your dress, some desperate man might finally take pity on you.
Might even find a date for the wedding, huh?”
They laughed together. It was a synchronized sound, a harmony of cruelty that I had listened to for twenty-six years. They laughed like I wasn’t even in the room.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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