A Cut so Deep - Dani Rene Page 0,1

normal that I’ve become accustomed to burns through my veins, reminding me that I can never be loved in the way I need to. Not from my parents, and not from the boys at school.

I’ve made my choice.

It won’t take much for me to walk away because I want to leave this place and never come back. I want to find my own way, without the rules and regulations that my parents have imposed on me, where I have to be perfect all the time.

Perfection is not real. It’s a myriad of broken pieces fit together just to shimmer when the light hits it. But, in reality, it’s broken, it’s shattered. Nothing more than an illusion to show off a poised, polished person that you can never be. Under scrutiny though, the fissures show up, and each time you fear someone might notice them, you add more jewels, add more makeup, more expensive clothes, hiding the ugly truth underneath.

I look at the cut on my inner thigh, it’s not deep, but it’s enough to release the pent-up frustration that’s taken hold of me. Enough to make me feel alive, real. I push off the floor and wince when the skin tingles and stings.

It’s high enough to be hidden from view. Only I know it’s there. Only I can see the truth of what I’ve done, and that’s how I know it needs to stay. I apply the plaster gently over the wound and pull the leg of my shorts down.

Time to be the happy child they created. Time to be the perfect doll my parents have portrayed me as since I was born.

And that all starts right now.

Happy birthday to me.

1

Nesrin

Two years later

There’s nothing more dangerous than time.

People come and go and, sometimes, they go before you’re ready to let them. When you have no choice but to say goodbye. It’s been a year since my father died, twelve months since I first found solace in the actions that I’ve become addicted to.

I can’t explain why, but I need it. Anxiety tightens my stomach when my mother knocks on my bedroom door. It’s my eighteenth birthday, and even though I can legally move out of the house and get an apartment, she hasn’t yet allowed me that freedom. Her argument is that I’m safer in the home I grew up in. For now, I’ll indulge her.

That might sound strange to someone else, but my mother isn’t a normal mom. She’s one of the most famous faces in America. And now that she’s getting remarried, she’s become a household name. People follow her around daily; the paparazzi never leave her alone. There are times I’m fearful of her life being endangered, but she loves it. Every moment is like a godsend for her, even when she receives stalker mail. I’ve seen some sordid messages from people who call themselves fans, but they’re more deranged from what they’ve said.

Each time she opens one of those envelopes, a cold shiver takes hold of me because I half expect them to walk in any second and I’ll be an orphan. Without a dad, losing my mother would more than likely hurt like hell. Not that we’ve ever been close. We’ve always had a volatile relationship.

But I’ve learned that behind the Botox and pearly white smile lies the depression she struggles with behind closed doors. That’s how I’ve grown up, knowing that when you’re in public, you fake a smile, giggle when you’re asked personal questions, and air-kiss people you don’t know but act as if you love them dearly.

“Nesrin Anne Ellington,” my mother’s voice calls to me from the other side of the door. Whenever she uses my full name, I know shit’s about to go down. Groaning, I push my blankets off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It’s not even sunrise yet, but I know summer will be here soon, and we’ll be drenched in the sticky heat.

I wanted to move to Washington State, or farther north, maybe Canada, where it’s cooler, but Mommy Dearest loves to be baked under the hot California sun.

“If you don’t—”

I swing my door open, interrupting the angry tirade I know she was about to spew at me. Arching a dark eyebrow, I meet her steely gaze. I look nothing like her, taking after my father—olive skin, pitch-black hair, and gentle hazel eyes.

“I’m awake,” I tell her nonchalantly because I enjoy fucking with her pristine, polished appearance. Nobody knows what she’s really like.