(Matilda's POV):

I skip home in half a daze, still tasting the name golden boy. In fact I seem to be too dazed to notice anything until I bump into something. Or someone.

"Mary!" my mother shrieks.

I snap out of my daze.

"Huh?"

In a flash she whips out a box; my kit.

"What is this?" she snaps.

I try to hide my fear away.

"What?" I ask trying to seem surprised.
"How did THAT get in here?"

"Don't play games with me! I know you had it hidden."

I realize there's no sense in playing oblivious.

"Where did you find it?"

"You left a drawer open in your room and this monstrosity was sticking out. I've let you get away for too long. It's high time that you change yourself."

"Change myself? I don't need to change myself."

"Oh yes you do. And that was why I went out and talked to a psychiatrist earlier today. He told me you need to know who you're supposed to be. And to start, you are not allowed to associate yourself with those street urchins any longer. To follow, all of your clothes must be either dresses or pink. Your room will be redecorated. You are not to think. You must wear makeup. And no more of this rubbish you call candy."

Taking my kit, she walks over to the fireplace.

"Mom?" I ask worried.
"What-what are you going to do with it?"

She gives me a look of fury.

"Something I should've done to the likes of the kit a long time ago."

I look to her and then the fire. And it all becomes clear.

"Mom, no," I gasp.

She prepares her arm.

"Please no. Don't. My friends! They worked so hard to buy me it. Mom, please!"

I'm almost on the verge of tears and soon I hear the crackling of the fire explode as the kit lands among the embers.

A lump quickly forms in my throat and tears well up in my eyes.

"You monster!" I growl.
"Don't you know how much money they scraped together to buy it for me?"

"I don't care. I am the mother and you are the child and what I say goes. And what I say goes next is that."

With an accusing finger, she points at the very thing I plan to take to my grave; my notebook.

"Hand it over, Matilda," she hisses.
"Your days of thinking are over."

She actually knows my real name! So it wasn't just a coincidence when she said it earlier that day. My eyes begin to see red again. Heat pulsates through my body as the long-seeded, and now unbridled, rage accumulates into this very moment. Every atom around me sends bursts of energy and the red hands emerge once more.

"No," I say plainly.

She gives me a look of shock and anger.

"What did you just say to me?" she asks with a punch to each word.

I remain in my state of passive anger, slowly becoming aggressive.

"I said no," I spit.
"Parents are supposed to nurture and encourage the interests in their children. For as long as I can remember, not only have you refused to nurture or encourage my interests, but you have attempted to oppress them as well."

The hands begin to move forward.

"You don't care about what I like," I continue, my voice changing.
"You don't even see me as an individual, but instead as a block of clay to be molded into a mini-you. Well, news flash. I am not a block of clay nor will I ever be a mini-you!"

They begin to divide and conquer, each group handling an item in the room. Soon they prepare to strike.

"You can make me wear pink. You can try to suppress my thought. But over my dead, unyielding body will you ever-and I mean ever-burn up my notebook."

I'm about to unleash the monster hands when all of a sudden, I feel a rippling sting in my face. I hear a hard slap and my face throws itself to the right. Some of the hands retract, dropping the items.

"Matilda, stop this right now!" I hear my mother crow angrily as she pulls her hand away from my face.

Another hand reaches up and I hear the same hard slap, but I don't feel any pain.

The red fades from my eyes and I glance around until my eye catches sight of a mirror. On my left cheek is a giant red mark. I look back to my mother and I see that my hand is out and blaring red. I look to her face to find the same red mark on her cheek only smaller. That's when I realize that it was not a small red hand that slapped my mother, but my own hand.

She gives me a look of stone-cold anger.

"Go straight up to your room and pack your things, young lady. Tomorrow you will be sent to the ward. I know psychiatric treatment will straighten you out and perhaps some shock therapy."

"Never!" I scream as I run to the front door. I push it open and step out. Then I turn back to my mother.
"I hate you. I wish I was the daughter of Willy Wonka instead!"

With hatred in my heart, I take my things and rush out the door, not quite sure where I'm going, until I stop at the place where my love began.