Why We Don't Get Nice Things

 

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...Welcome to my life...

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The Truth Hurts

 "This is why we don't get nice things." Bethany said to me with a hint of tough love, us both drenched in a heavy torrent of rain and thick hailstones.                

Everything was supposed to be perfect. I had money, friends and a particularly good school life. My boyfriend, Tom (the stuck-up snob my parents expected me to marry) weirdly had an lingering adoration for me. (and about ten other girls too.) Even my teachers had a special - but secret - love for the quiet little Mandi who wouldn't talk but look at pictures of her role models. 

(Nikki and Brie Bella, rather shockingly to them.) 

Until the day. The day that changed everything. No, that's too cheesy. The day that made me who I am today.

I still hear the screams tearing  across the room: a servant; the servant; Dina's hand pulling me away from all of the chaos. Wails. 


"WE DONT HAVE IT!"


 A body - no, bodies - dead on the floor. Maids and servants lying in shattered pieces of fine, floral blue china. My twin sister; Andi. A gunshot  in her stomach; bleeding out and reaching for a pen and paper. She wrote a letter. It was grabbed up by the thieves in a heartbeat. The last thing I saw was her award-winning smile lazily fall.


Heh.


Andi and Mandi they'd call us; the power couple. 


That's gone now.


It was me who should have died. I know. My mother berated me on it after kicking me out of the house. 

"It should have been you!" she sobbed and yelled angrily. "You little brat: destined to a life of Nikki Kardashian and Brie Brat and WWC, WWE... I don't know what!"


"Andi was the studious one, the one who would bring me children and not signed pictures of wrestlers; the one who would get a life and get me MORE money! You. Are. NOTHING!" she roared to 14 year old me, a steady trickle of blood spilling onto my Stay Fearless shirt.


That day I was in a broken, injured, huddle on the streets. Until I met Bethany. Another girl like me scrambling across the city, taking scraps from the bins.


She stared at me. I stared at her. A 15 year old girl as skinny as her 10-year-younger counterpart. She knew I was.. 'new'. 

My nails were still perfectly manicured (apart from a few bite marks here and there); straight; and painted a bright shade of red.

Her's were raggedy and bitten to the core; crooked and had dirt lodged underneath them, so much that you could barely see the top white part of her nails, if they could even be called that.


My skin was poreless, with a splatter of mud on my cheek. Her's was probably permanently stained with the amount of mud on it. 


My shirt still had pigment and you could read out the inspiring words that had helped me to survive. She scarcely had a black shirt, words faded and unable to read with a big rip in the back.


"St-ay f-ear-less..." she said, pronouncing each of the syllables slowly.

"You can talk?!" I stupidly muttered out. Don't blame me. I was shaken.


She laughed. I laughed. Then she took me under her wing. That was probably the last time I'd ever smile.


The truth hurts.


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(NitMain Character Profile: Mandi

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