Her eyes zoned in on me as he praised my name. Her eyes filled with loathing as they often did when he mentioned my name. Who is she? She's my stepmother. Father often tried to convince me that she was my mother. I know this to be a lie, what else could she be? What true mothers' eyes turn with hate to their daughter?
I was too young when mother died, or left us to prove to my father that I knew she was not my mother. So for practically my whole life I've been forced to call this…. Woman … mum.
"Jezabell!" Her shrill voice cut across my thoughts. "The dishes need washing, and they don't do it on their own. Hop to it!!!"
"We have a dish washing machine O' Tyrant of the house." Absent mindedly I flickered through one of dad's old Time magazine. The wrenched woman ripped it out of my hands.
"We're too poor to use it every night." She herself began to flip through the magazine.
"POOR?" I practically screamed. "Lady look around we live in a mini mansion!"
"How do you think we pay the mortgage?! We cut down on every day comfort!"
"then how about you stop paying for those 200.oo$ makeovers?" I rolled my eyes, then groaned as I heard dad call.
"Jez… the dish thing is broken, wanna help out and wash the dishes?"
I walked into the kitchen to find the place covered in water. Kneeling down beside good old Pops, I reach out my hand. For something had caught my eye. I pulled it out of the jammed gears. It was a small metal lipstick container.
"Oh…. Jezabell, darling, you didn't!" The tyrant had come up behind me.
"Didn't what?" I said blankly and held the up the container to her. "Here this is your's…. mum."
"Don't be silly, it's not mine, In fact I saw you using it earlier this morning." She was revolting…
"Jez, room now!" Dad… you poor silly fool
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