Devil Woman

You don't need other people's approval.

I don't clearly remember how it happened. All I remember is that I didn't dream it. It was real, as real as the burning sensation when you brush against a flame, mistress of heat.

I remember getting up like every morning, getting dressed, and applying makeup with a line of eyeliner and mascara.

I then went down to the common kitchen for breakfast.

My mum was different from other mums. We didn't do these mother-daughter activities. I couldn't remember our last shopping trip or our pancake afternoon; had it only happened once before?

When my mother was on her good days, she didn't provoke me in the morning.

His first words were crucial and decisive because they determined what kind of day had just begun. And the more time passed, the rarer it was to enjoy coffee in silence.

What is this outfit? You go to school, not prostitute yourself.

I glanced discreetly at my outfit. My lace-up sweater showed only a tiny patch of skin, almost competing with my black jeans and my Federation of Nuns-approved Derbys.

So I didn't bother to answer him and shoved a slice of bread in the toaster, almost to avoid giving him a spicy reply.

Over the years, I had learned not to respond to his daily remarks. Anyway, even the few times I tried to make her understand that I cared more about the color of Lady Gaga's nail polish than her opinion, she didn't want to hear anything.

My mother was a tenacious woman, a bit like dirt. Maybe I got it from her, my badass appearance.

"Come here, let's fight."

Yet I had to keep my head high; the pain was there. Hidden deep in my chest, and each of his words was like a needle.

Sharp, precise, and piquant.

When the browned piece of bread popped out of the machine, I vaguely heard him comment on how many calories a toast had.

You should know an important thing about my mother: although she has an incredibly inexhaustible stock of remarks, her favorite subjects remain my diet, my weight, my style of dress, and my dating.

Go figure why it seems she particularly itched to remind me every minute of my life how much better I could have been.

I put the knife aside once.

my piece of bread topped with slightly melted butter and bit into it eagerly.

Which obviously earned me yet another comment.

My lunch gobbled up faster than recommended by the diet channel in the background, I grabbed my school bag and slung it over one of my shoulders.

I left the house without even turning to the mistress of the place, who, without much surprise, did not sketch the shadow of a smile.

She could have pretended for once.

I walked quietly to my school, which was not very far from my home.

She could very well have led me, but I confessed that I was not so masochistic