Bad Enough for You (Currently Editing)

You're Supposed to Say 'You're Not Fat'

Hello, loves!! To the right, we have the beautiful Owen. Seriously. Just look at him. But, not for too long. I want you to read the chapter too XD Also, because I don't have the time to give Owen and Georgia their own story (though, I deseperately want to) their song is to the right. It's called, I Don't Wanna Miss This by Tyler Ward. You should totally check it out:) Also, you know the drill: read/vote/comment. I appreciate them all!!

2.] You're Supposed to Say 'You're Not Fat'

When we were growing up, my sister’s favorite color was red. I never quite understood her obsession with the color, which was the main color of the pillows and throw blankets that were piled on her bed. I really never noticed just how much Georgia loved the color until I was sitting at her makeup stand one afternoon, the sunlight streaming through the gauzy white curtains that fell across the balcony doors and onto the silver-tipped utensils spread across the white surface. I had been playing with the pearl earrings lying on her desk when I was distracted by the tubes of lipstick standing upright near the mirror. Pulling off all of the caps in hopes of finding a pretty pink, I instead found several different shades of red, each one darker than the last.

When Georgia walked back into the room, wearing a long black dress that hugged her hips and flowed out across the floor, I asked her why they were all red. She walked up behind me, taking the earrings from the table and quickly fastening them on her earlobes. Leaning down with her head next to my shoulder so that she could see into the mirror, she carefully selected one of the lipstick tubes and popped it open. Running the lipstick across her lips, her green eyes met mine in the mirror.

After rubbing her lips together, she just shrugged and said, “Red is the color of power, lust, and  rebellion.”

I never really understood what she meant by that until I was older and was sitting on one of the ottomans in her walk-in-closet. She was waist-deep in a pile of clothing, searching for one particular skirt. I was sitting there with my book tucked under my arm, waiting until she was dressed before I snuck down the hallway to see what our mother was up to so that she could sneak out the window. Once she had uncovered what she was looking for, a black leather designer skirt that was more the size of her underwear than anything else, she had hurried across the white carpeting to the large chest of drawers that sat in the middle, which was overcome with wrinkled magazines, perfume bottles, and lost jewelry. She yanked open the first drawer and pulled out her emergency makeup case.

“Can’t leave without a hint of red, right?” I barely even saw her wink before she was running once more out the door, the only sound of her departure was her high heels muffled against the carpeting.

I more or less understood why Georgia loved her red. I was learning in my literature class all of the things that colors could represent in literature. With my sister, it wasn’t about lust or power. And though she was certainly going through her most rebellious stage yet, she wasn’t using the red to represent that. Instead, it was apart of the person that Georgia became when she snuck out that window. It was more about creating an identity that she could slip beneath and that red lipstick was apart of her mask.

In time, Georgia eventually let go of the color red. With the end of college, she had become quite the sophisticated person, carefully having her apartment done up in cream and lilac. Her apartment screamed functional yet tasteful. It was all completely organized and everything, from artwork on the walls to the flowers on the glass coffee table matched her specific decor. Despite the fact that my sister was able to transform her life and leave the red behind, I couldn’t help but wonder if she had happened to get lost in the person that the new color scheme made her appear to be.

After my rather fiasco of a lunch with my father, I had directed my car in the direction of the city. Leaving behind the sleepy beach-front town of Jessamine, I had taken the winding road past Polly’s Bar and Grille until I hit the Interstate. With my hands clutched around the wheel, my oversized Chanel sunglasses resting dutifully on the bridge of my nose, I knew that there was only one person who could help me through this situation.