The Resurrection of Aubrey Miller(2)

After pinning the hair to the nape of my neck, I glance briefly at the industrial piercing at the top of my left ear, and then at the seven silver closure rings that line the side of the right.
I look like a freak.
Sometimes I wonder if I overdid the attempt to deter anyone and everyone from ever getting near me.
Well, if the piercings don’t work, the cat eyes should definitely get my point across.
Sigh.
While releasing the hair from my grasp, my other hand lifts toward my face and extends a finger, touching the surface of the contact before moving it aside to reveal a bright, sky-blue iris staring back at me. The color suited me at one time. Happy and alive, sunny.
No longer though.
Death becomes me.
I release the contact, and after it slides back into place I bend at the waist, feeling for the backpack that’s just beneath my feet. After locating it and zipping open the front pocket, I blindly finger through the items encased inside: eye drops, (wearing contacts day in and day out tends to dry out my eyes, go figure), a tiny notebook (which contains the ramblings of my journal), a full can of mace (forced upon me before leaving by Linda earlier this morning), until I find what I’m looking for nestled in the corner. Extracting the pot of pigment based cream eye-shadow and a round tube of lip stain from the pocket, I lay them in my lap as I scoot back into my seat, centering my face in the mirror.
Inhaling deeply, I relax my face and begin to apply the stain to my full lips, the hue of red so deep it’s just a smidge shy of appearing black as it settles in and creates a sharp contrast against my pallid skin. As the color sets, I place the tube back in my lap, then rub the side of my pinky finger along the outside of my bottom lip where the coloring has bled beyond its edges. Once my lips are taken care of, I unscrew the pot of cream and dip my forefinger directly inside before removing it, the tip now coated in what looks like black paste. After smearing it over both eyelids, I follow it up with another application underneath my eyes.
The familiarity of the ritual—the cloaking of my face, if you will—settles my nervous heartbeat. I don’t do so well around…people, so needless to say, my first day of college is going to be interesting.
After throwing the contents of my lap back into my backpack, I recline into my seat. As the wheels of the car continue their soothing roll, I chance a glimpse at the driver whose eyes are thankfully concentrating on the road in front of her.
Linda Walker.
She is the epitome of beauty.
I watch the short sleeves on her cream colored wrap dress dance along the skin of her upper arm as the cool air circulates inside the car, and privately take note at how the leather of her black belt is expertly coordinated with her heels.
But it’s not only her tailored outfit, or her thick, long, blonde hair, or her magnificent green eyes, or even her almost contagious smile. Her beauty is internal, derived from the enviable amount of ferocity in which she chooses to live her life. I would never say it to her, of course, but sometimes I find myself envious of her valor. It’s something I know without a doubt that I will never be able to possess. Hell, simply processing it doesn’t even seem possible for me.
She took me in at the tender age of eight as a lost and frightened, blue-eyed, blonde-haired little girl and will be leaving me at Titan University a terrified, cat-eyed, black-and-emo-punk-blue-haired woman. I know she wonders where she went wrong, but I’ve tried several times to explain to her that you can’t break something that’s so clearly already broken.
With the loss of my parents—first my mother and then my father shortly after—I was handed over to her since, as my mother’s best friend, she had been dutifully ordained as my godmother when I was born. She has since retained full custody, due to the fact that I have no other living relatives. Those deaths I thankfully did not play a part in. Although, both of my mother’s parents passed away while I was in utero, so maybe I did.
Yeah, I probably did.
Anyway, after the death of my parents, I was shuttled her way via C.P.S., four hours away from the tiny town of Wilmer and the home I grew up in to her residence in Canton. I don’t remember much around that time. I was pretty much a zombie for the next year or so, trying unsuccessfully to integrate myself into a new, much larger school and make new life-long friends.
Right.
Saying I had a hard time adjusting would be a massive understatement. I had just lost my family and left the only real friend I ever had back in Wilmer, so the transition was not an easy one to say the least.
Yet, the more difficult it became, the harder Linda tried.
One day, she decided to bring home a parakeet, thinking the idea of having a pet and possibly one friend would help me move on and find some sort of joy again. It died the next day when it face-planted into the sliding glass door in the living room.
Undeterred, she brought home a kitten the next week. It was run over by our neighbors the next Thursday.
I don’t even want to go into the puppy she attempted to bring home for my twelfth birthday. That one still breaks my heart. Who knew six-week old puppies weren’t allowed copious amounts of chocolate cake?
“Why are you staring at me?” Linda’s voice disrupts my thoughts. It’s then that I realize I’ve been gawking at her for the past couple of minutes while lost in my memories. Directing my gaze forward, I fold my hands together and lay them on top of my olive green Dickies while stretching my legs until my Doc Martens hit the bottom of the glove compartment.
After releasing a weighted breath, I respond, “Walter.”
“Walter? Was that the bird or the kitten?”
“Neither, it was the puppy.”