A note about the illustrations: The illustrations were part of a storyboard assignment for a digital illustration class, and I chose to reprise my old Figurines story I’d written 18 years earlier. There are differences between the story and the illustrations—for example Megan has long hair. The full storyboard also has a slightly different plot. I felt it might be interesting to put a few in the story anyway, but keep in mind they’re from essentially a different version of the story and may not fit the text 100%.
Shit. She’d lied to herself again. She released her grip on the pewter dragon and pulled her hand back onto the bed. Glaring at the door her father had just closed behind him, Megan clasped her pillow tightly to her chest. As she felt the familiar tightening in her stomach, she rolled toward the window, curling herself around the pillow.
When she was eleven or twelve and he’d do it, she used to throw up. Now she just swallowed hard and stared at the blue Rubbermaid garbage can by her desk.
From downstairs came the sound of the refrigerator door as her dad took his daily apple from the fruit bin. His passion for health had always struck Megan as being ironic. At the next sound, she relaxed a little.
It was the front door. He was gone. She waited until she heard the brakes of his brown truck squeal at the stop sign down the street, and then she let go of the pillow and sat up. As she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror which leaned heavily against the wall from atop her dresser.
She was small boned and somewhat fragile looking. She didn’t mind being only five feet tall, and people who teased her about it were never derogatory. Her eyes were green, which was the main reason she’d dyed her hair red. Short, her hair framed her small, angular face in a tight fringe.
I look like a boy.
She looked to the end of her dresser at an old photo tucked behind her clock.
No I don’t. I look like my mother.
And that’s what he always said.
“Yeah. Your mother’s losin’ her looks, but you’re gettin’ `em, baby.” Then he’d touch her cheek with his hand. . .
She shuddered. She hated that hand.
continued:
— 11:03:09 PM
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