Book Blitz: Ugly by Margaret McHeyzer
Title: Ugly
Author: Margaret McHeyzer
Genre: YA/NA
Release Date: October 26, 2015
From New York Times bestselling author
Margaret McHeyzer....
If I were dead, I wouldn't be able to
see.
If I were dead, I wouldn't be able to
feel.
If I were dead, he'd never raise his
hand to me again.
If I were dead, his words wouldn't cut
as deep as they do.
If I were dead, I'd be beautiful and I
wouldn't be so...ugly.
I'm not dead...but I wish I was.
Prologue
It’s days like today I wish I was
dead.
“Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass
out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy
screams.
He’s so angry. I knew the moment I
heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom,
lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so
hard the windows in my room shook.
And then I knew, I knew I was in for
it.
“Lily Anderson!” he yells again.
As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my
hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far
into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me
and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.
“Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can
hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s
going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s
coming.
I close my eyes tight, scrunching them
up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I
can’t hear him.
“I swear to God; if I have to find
you, you will not sit for a month.”
My knees are folded into my chest. I’m
trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m
rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.
School is safe. School is safe. School
is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours
I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library
after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after
Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.
It was never like this before. Ever.
I’m twelve years old and I can
remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago.
It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this
house.
Well, before Mom died anyway, and not a
day since.
Mom died when I was nine. I don’t
remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I
am. How life would be better if I was taken away from them. How I’ll
never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.
Sometimes I dream happy things. Like
me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic.
The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d
eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade
lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just
having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved
me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and
pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile
and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad
would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park,
trying to catch the clouds.
I love those dreams, and I hold onto
them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that,
and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to
tell me how ugly and useless I am.
I feel him walking around the house.
The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come
through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and
try and breathe as quietly as I can.
Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.
My heart is beating so fast. My hands
are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s
going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.
Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound
is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a
rattle…nothing.
Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone
to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s
left...forever.
I take a deep breath and just relax for
a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.
Slowly I take my hands down from my
ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I
can’t hear him at all.
Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes
from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right.
There’s light coming into the closet.
I don’t even get a chance to open
them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail
and yanks.
“I told you it’d be worse for you
if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet
by my hair.
I’m desperately trying to hold onto
my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find
traction on the dirty floorboards.
“Please, Daddy. Please. You’re
hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.
“Then your ugly ass should’ve come
when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you
ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to
drag me toward the family room.
That’s when he’s most scary. When
his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.
He throws me against the side of the
sofa and takes a step back to look at me.
I look up and can see he’s the
angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he
says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m
so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as
possible.
“You’re just too fucking stupid,
aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to
scratch at his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears
are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he
was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.
“You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot
into my leg.
The pain is instant and my leg feels
like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my
face into my hands.
But ‘please’ never seems to work.
Nothing does.
I’ve just got to take the beatings,
because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.
There's something about the written
word that is pure magic.
Possibly it's the fact there are 26
letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so
beautiful or so empowering they're capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit
and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as 'unique'.
My stories aren't for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you
believe to be 'normal'.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who's
never been 'bound by custom' but is 'unique by choice'.
I hope you do read and enjoy my
stories.
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