Seven
She isn’t your mother.
She isn’t your mother.
This piece of information keeps knocking on the inside of my brain, and now that I’m alone, nothing I do can distract me from it. I examine every part of my bedroom—almost as nice as the guest room in Dash’s parents’ house—but fluffed-up pillows, a luxuriously soft carpet, and a four-poster bed can’t keep the image of a mother who isn’t my mother from branding itself onto the inside of my mind.
I open the wardrobe and discover, upon finding a mirror there, that I look terrible. My skin is pale, and my eyelids are smudged with dark makeup. I pick up some clean clothes from one of the shelves and, after peering both ways down the hall to make sure I’m not about to bump into anyone, I cross to the bathroom Azzy pointed out. What I find t
