Little White Angel

I had white little shoes and a little white dress. They matched my white knee-high socks and my white little bow and my little bleached teeth and my little-ness in general. My light brown hair and grey-green eyes popped out from my white clothing, but I liked it that way. Mommy said God made me little for a reason. I was always her little Angel and so I should always dress that way.

Mommy never let me wear color. She said Angels only wear white. So I only wore white because I was Mommy’s Angel.

One day it rained. I asked Mommy why it rains. She said it rains because God is upset. The plants are all dry so He cries for them. And His tears are magic tears.

I wanted to taste magic tears.

I went outside when Mommy got our lunch and I danced in the rain. It was warm and it smelled like a summer garden because that’s where I was. I danced and laughed and spun around.

But dancing in dirt in the rain makes mud.

Mommy ran outside after me. I looked at her with my six-year-old grin and I shouted for her to dance with me.

Mommy didn’t like that my dress wasn’t white anymore.

That was the first time I felt Mommy be angry with me. It felt horrible and awful. And she hated herself more afterward because I no longer had white skin. It was spotted with greens and reds and purples.

And Angels are white.

*~*~*

When I was seven, Mommy was straightening my hair. She was frowning because my light brown hair didn’t like to be straight. It liked to be wavy and curly instead. I liked it that way too.

But Mommy didn’t.

Mommy said Angels have straight blonde hair which means I had to have straight blonde hair too.

It didn’t taste good when Mommy bleached my teeth. I already knew that. But I didn’t know how much it would hurt when Mommy bleached my hair.

*~*~*

I am now twelve years old. Mommy is bleaching my roots again. It hurts but I don’t cry anymore. If I cry, my face will get red. Mommy doesn’t like that.

Mommy finishes and dries my hair. She looks into my grey-green eyes and smiles. She says I’m her little Angel and holds me close. I hold her back and squeeze with a warm smile. I am her Angel.

*~*~*

Mommy is humming again. I don’t like when she hums. When she hums, it means I’m not Angel enough for her. But she'll never admit to it. Mommy never admits she's wrong.

She comes into my room while I play the harp like Angels do. My face turns whiter than even my Mommy loves. In her right hand she holds a needle, a scalpel and white thread. In her left hand, she holds what looks like metal hangers covered in my old tights and white feathers.

She says I have earned my Angel wings.

*~*~*

It was raining again. I loved the rain. My little white shoes splashed in the puddles. I walked down the road in the middle. No one ever came there so I didn’t think I’d see anyone. And besides that, I hardly ever got to see the road so I knew I had to.

I never knew how much in meant to wear color. The red on my little white dress looked so pretty. I twirled on the street as I walked towards the town I hardly saw.

Headlight turned the corner too quickly as I reached the edge of town. I could hear the tires screech to a stop and the driver get out. I didn’t care. I was humming too happily and walking away.

“Are you hurt?” I looked back at the stranger. It was a man that looked like a really nice dad. His wife sat in the car ready to dial a phone.

“No sir,” I replied. I smiled and began to walk away again.

“Halloween isn’t until next month,” the man says. When I asked him what Halloween was, he stared at me funny.

*~*~*

White. I hate the color white. But now, I’m drowning in it. White walls, white floors, white robes with white pajamas. Always white!

At least I get to wear some color. I found out red is my favorite.

*~*~*

I stare at the rain outside. It’s falling down slanted and playing pretty music on the glass. I wish I could be outside, but I’m okay in here.

The nice nurse who wears lavender tells me it’s time to get my hair done. It’s so nice of her. I would really like to go back to having one color instead of brown roots and fake blonde hair. And she says I can cut it short!

I like this nurse. I like this place. They let my teeth yellow and feed me until I’m too full. And no one calls me their little Angel!

I guess I was too bad for my wings. It’s why I couldn’t let you sew wings to my back. It’s why I put you with the mud I love so much.

I’m sorry I’m not an Angel. Mommy, I’m just me. And ‘just me’ likes red.