Tristesse d' E'te'

Christine Wells is a normal teenage girl, recently healing from a loss. When she meets a new French teacher that thinks Christine can learn a whole new lot from French, Christine has a whole new life ahead of her.


4. June 3, 2017; Norfolk, Virginia; 8:00 PM

 "Are you ready to eat?" Missy asked me once I stepped foot into the kitchen. I walked along and sat at the chair that was facing the wall.
​ "Why do I even bother," Missy said to herself. "The girl barely even talks! So why do I still try? It's like talking to a teddy bear!"
​ And you're not even my mother! I thought in my head. ​So why do I even bother? It's like I'm a Foster child!
​ Then I thought something I have never thought in my whole entire life: Am ​I a foster child? I don't even have a mother yet, because My mom ran away when I was a baby, and I have been ignoring Missy since they died. So I am honestly a foster?
​ Missy came to the table and set my plate in front of me. Once she left in the laundry room, I gobbled up every single crumb on my plate and stared at it as if it disappeared without my care. When Missy came back, she peered over my head to see if I ate it. She put it in the dishwasher and left. This is Literally our daily routine: Wake, make bed, shower, teeth, clean room, brush hair, eat, play outside, get hurt, worry Missy, band aid and pain reliever with a hint of ripped clothing, go back outside, get hurt again, give up, feed Fluffles, read, nap, wake up, lunch, feed Fluffles, brush hair, watch TV, eat dinner, shower, teeth, brush hair, clean room, feed Fluffles, go to bed. I have all the band aids, Fluffles bite marks, smooth hair, clean teeth, clean room, and empty pain reliever tubes just to prove it. There is nothing that ever goes out of place. Everything is the same thing every day, which is so boring.
​ I have to take care of my hair 3 times a day because of Missy. Around the age of 10, when my hair started to grow long, Missy wanted to nurse it so bad, but every time she tried to touch it, I ran away from her. I wouldn't let her touch an inch of my hair at all. So one day she said that if I won't let her touch my hair, the least I could do was take care of it myself. Of course, I didn't answer, but now I take care of it 3 times a day. I don't recall the last time she ever touched an inch of my hair, or an inch of me at all, period.
​ After dinner was over, I went upstairs to shower. When I went inside my room, my nightly pajamas were folded neatly on my bed, on the same spot as always. I rolled my eyes and snatched them up from the bed. I could feel Missy behind me, but I didn't care. At least she was not past the line I drew that she could not pass.
​I didn't even look her in the eye as I waited for her to move out of the way. Missy sometimes throws my clothes on my bed so she wont come in the room, and sometimes I wondered how she got it in the same spot without the folds getting messed up. But I didn't ask. She stepped sideways and I speed walked to the bathroom.
​ I slammed the door and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I had the most ugliest reflection you could ever see; cappuccino eyes, waist length black hair, a low nose bridge, thin lips that had the color like I had just drank cherry juice, and the smallest body the size of Missy's Cadillac. I was so ugly, I almost laughed. Every day I hope and pray that one day I will wake up and have a different body. But it never comes true. I have a thing for wishes. I could wish on about everything lucky I could find; dandelions, birthday wishes, lucky clovers, horseshoes, rabbits foot, elephants, rainbows, ladybugs, pennies, anything you could name. Because every time I wish, I wish the same thing over and over and over ​again; "I wish one day that this would all be a nightmare and I would wake up." But it has never come true. I always wake up and I am in the same room, same house, same... guardian... I guess?
​As I was showering, a sudden horrid thought came to my mind; What if Missy adopts me one day without me knowing? What If she already did? I clenched my fists together of that putrid thought. Surely enough, Missy would be very happy all the time and start doing more motherly things. But what if she wanted to hide it? How could I ask her without making contact or speaking?

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