Sinful Serenade

Chapter 4

TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM

Danielle

As I dress and style my hair for this stupid, obligatory lunch with my mom, Kenneth's voice plays in my ears as he sings the unplugged version of "Fall". Ever since last night, I haven't been able to get him out of my mind. I think I have a problem.

The sound of my phone chiming cuts through the music, prompting me to cross the room and check it. Flopping onto my bed, I notice I have a new f*******: notification.

"Who the hell is Blake Anderson?" I ask aloud, my eyebrows furrowing.

My mind instantly jumps to the possibility that my mom may be attempting to stalk me online again. But the idea of her creating an entire fake profile seems a little far-fetched, considering her limited tech skills.

I still hope whoever showed her the tracking feature on her iPhone dies a miserable death.

With my suspicions high, I scroll through the profile. This guy goes to my school. He's kinda cute, and surprisingly, we have over thirty mutual friends.

Weird. I don't think I've ever seen him around campus before. It feels like I should know him, yet his face remains unfamiliar.

Before I can investigate Blake Anderson any further, my phone rings, displaying my mom's name on the screen.

"Hey Mama," I attempt to sound cheerful.

"I hope you're on your way. You know better than to be late, my friends joining us for lunch are already starting to arrive," she scolds, her voice grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

"I'm leaving now," I assure her, scrambling to the door.

"Good. I notice you turned your location off last night. Fix it. Now," she orders sternly. "You're living in my house again for the summer, so you follow my rules. I won't warn you again."

"Yes Ma'am," I try not to grit out. After the call ends, I slide into my car and head to the fancy restaurant my mom always goes to weekly with her doctor friends. I'm dreading it so badly, as I do every single time, but it's part of the stipulation when I didn't get a scholarship and she offered to pay for it.

The terms of our agreement were: every break, including summer, I would live with her. I would pursue a medical career. I would accompany her to lunch with her snobby, bitchy friends every Saturday, and attend church with her every Sunday.

Additionally, I was to keep my location on, allowing her to monitor my every f*****g movement since according to her, I shouldn't have a car in the first place. However, Maeve gifted me her old car when her Dad purchased her a new one.

After my parents' got divorced, she decided to pour all of her attention into making me exactly like her, since she hated that I was too much like my dad. So once I graduated, I agreed to attend the university a mere twenty minutes away from home, and go to school to become a doctor just to satisfy her. At this point, I'm starting to believe my life is just something to brag to her circle of friends about.

Once I arrive to the restaurant and step out of the car, I take a moment to readjust my dress to perfection. I know Mom will say something about the long sleeves, she always does, but I won't expose my arms now or never.

And she's well aware of the reason why.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I plaster a smile on my face; it feels unnatural and awkward, but I'm well aware that if I don't, there will be a thousand questions about why I look so angry (thanks to my resting b***h face), and I know it will displease Mom. So, despite the discomfort, I maintain the facade, ensuring that my expression mirrors the faux cheerfulness she expects.

Anxiety and dread swirl in my belly, threatening to swallow me whole, but I walk into the restaurant with the fake confidence I mustered up. Scanning the crowded establishment, I locate Mom's table somewhat in the middle near the wide windows where there is good lighting to take pictures. Her friends surround her, dressed in elegant dresses and adorned in expensive jewelry.

I promptly take my seat in my designated spot directly across from her. She prefers me right here so she can closely monitor my expressions, and, if necessary, discreetly correct my behavior with a kick under the table.

"Good Afternoon, everyone," I greet, my voice calm and cheerful despite the emotions churning inside me. My eyes sting from the tears forming in them, but I quickly blink them away, refusing to show any sign of weakness in front of Mom.

I hate her. I hate this. I hate every f*****g thing about my life because she ruins everything, suffocating me in the process. Last night was the first bit of freedom I've felt in my life, and now I'm back to...this.

"Hello Danielle, how nice to see you again," Brenda's snobby voice breaks through my thoughts, snapping me back to the reality I desperately wish to escape. "That dress is pretty, I would ask to borrow it if it wasn't long-sleeves."

Inside, I seethe with resentment, but on the outside, I maintain my friendly mask. Every woman at this table is completely unaware of the simmering hatred festering just beneath the surface.

"Teresa, do us all a favor and get this girl some new clothes. It's the beginning of summer," Shayla says snidely. "That dress looks ridiculous in this weather."

Her comment stings, but I refuse to let it show. They won't break me.

"I've tried, but she insists on wearing long sleeves. You know how hard-headed children can be nowadays," Mom says, her intense gaze piercing through me.

Child? I'm f*****g twenty-two years old.

"Well, I've told my daughter that if she's going to live under my roof, she needs to dress according to my standards. No exceptions," Shantae declares, her nose pointed in the air.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I swear, these women get off on the ability that they can force their children to go to school for hard ass careers, where they're too busy studying to have a job or social life, and then control their lives just because.

"You know I'm a cool mom," Mom snickers, lifting her mimosa to her lips as if congratulating herself for being a controlling, manipulative b***h.

If she's the epitome of a 'cool' mom, then someone please come shoot me now.

She must've heard my thoughts somehow because she delivers a swift kick underneath the table, jolting me back to the present. "Danielle, Brenda asked you a question," she warns, her voice laced with a thinly veiled threat.

My eyes fly to Brenda, finding her brown gaze fixed on me. "Oh, I'm sorry," I apologize quickly, widening my smile. "I was just thinking about how excited I am to go to church tomorrow."

No. The. f**k. I. Am. Not.

Brenda's amusement is evident in her loud, weird laugh. She sounds like a damn hyena, but no one ever dares to tell her that. "We're very excited to have you back," she replies between chuckles, "You know, Mother Davis has been asking about you for months."

"I really miss her too," I reply sincerely. Mother Davis has always been kind, letting me vent when I needed it the most. Growing up, I couldn't confide in my mom about anything, so I enjoyed the moments when I could turn to Mother Davis for support and guidance, especially during my teenage years.

"Well, I was asking if you wanted me to do your hair before service tomorrow morning. You're looking a bit...homely," Brinda remarks shamelessly.

"And your Mama needs to feed you more. Real men don't like thin, little girls," Shayla adds, her words dripping with contempt.

Obviously, you don't have a real man then because he cheated on you with a freshly eighteen-year-old babysitter.

I bite my tongue, halting the snarky comment in its tracks. Allowing it to sip out would undoubtfully shatter the carefully crafted illusion of control Mom maintains over me.

"She's right, you know. Matter of fact, I'm going to order for you," Mom declares, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The more meat on your plate, the better."

"Thanks, Mama," I respond quietly, directing my gaze to my lap because if I look at her, she'll see the hatred burning in my eyes.

After enduring a terrible f*****g lunch, everyone says goodbye with forced hugs that make my skin crawl, of course, commenting on how thin I look. I guess, just f**k the fact that I'm healthy and eat without restraint. It seems I just can't gain weight as effortlessly as they can.

As Mom hugs me, her voice slices through the restaurant's chatter, loud enough for her friends and anyone nearby to hear. "I want you in the house tonight by eight, understood?" she says firmly.

Laughter erupts from her friends, followed by comments like "that's right, girl" and "you tell her".

Gritting my teeth, I nod reluctantly. "Yes, Ma'am," I mutter, feeling my face burn with embarrassment.

Tears blur my vision as I get into my car and start the engine, a tumult of emotions weighing heavily on me. Driving back to the house, my chest hurts so much, it feels like I can't breathe. It's not like I have anywhere else to be anyway; Maeve is working on this beach house party she's throwing tonight with a few of her guy friends.

As I pull into the familiar confines of the driveway, it feels like I've returned to prison and It's time to go on lockdown until tomorrow. With a sense of hopelessness and despair consuming me, I rush to my room, the only sanctuary in this hellhole.

Locking the door behind me, I reach into the bottom of my underwear drawer, my fingers closing around the cold, familiar shape of the razorblade hidden inside.

With tears and snot dripping down my face, I rip off my dress and sit on the bed, clutching the razorblade tightly in my trembling hand. With a shaky breath, I drag the razorblade across my wrist, the sharp sting a temporary relief from the suffocating pain of my life.

I carve shallow cuts into my flesh, reopening old scars and creating new ones. Each cut is deep enough to bleed, but unfortunately not deep enough to end my miserable existence.

I don't know why I can never muster the courage to do it.

Maybe it's out of fear of what lies beyond life on earth, or perhaps it's the belief that I'll be condemned to an eternity of burning in hell.

It could all be so easy. Just a little pain, and I could break free from my mom forever. I'd never have to see her again, or listen to her annoying ass voice, or endure her relentless criticsm about things I can't control about my body.

I slice into my skin over and over again until the little droplets of blood turn into streams, staining the fabric of my bed. In this moment, I really don't give a f**k. I'll clean the sheets later before Mom returns home.

Even though she's aware of my self-harm, she turns a blind eye as long as her friends or the church remain oblivious. If they found out, she'd probably pretend to care and put me in a psychiatric hospital instead of changing her shitty behavior that makes me do it in the first place.

With each stroke of the blade, a fleeting sense of relief washes over me, tears and blood mingling to create a messy masterpiece on my arms and legs.

Suddenly, something compels me to grab my phone and play the song I had been listening to earlier. Setting the razorblade down on the bed, I reach for my AirPods, slipping them into my ears. Pressing play on my phone, Kenneth's voice envelops me, and I close my eyes, rocking back and forth.

Uncontrollable sobs escape me as all my pent-up emotions finally find release. The chorus plays in my ear:

Baby, it's okay to jump,

Because I'll catch you when you fall.

Through the darkness and the storm,

I'll be your shelter, standing tall.

After returning the blade to its drawer, I carefully bandage my arms and collapse onto my blood-stained sheets, too mentally drained to do anything else. With Kenneth's voice soothing voice in my ears, I surrender to sleep, and escape from my shitty reality for just a little while.