Confessions of a Kleptomanic

        Author: Jessica Sorensen

 

        

          

        

         

1 Confession #1

 

 

I'm far from the perfect person everyone thinks I am.

 

 

 

 

Luna

 

 

 

 

 

"I want you to light it on fire." My mom urges the matches and lighter fluid toward me. "You should be the one to do this. It was your mistake."

 

I tuck my hands behind my back as I look at my clothes, jewelry, and a few pairs of heels piled on the back lawn. "I can't."

 

"Luna, this isn't up for debate. You will burn these clothes. They're too immodest. I can't believe you bought them." She points a finger at the pile of clothes. "Those shorts are too short, and don't even get me started on the skirts. They don't even go to your knees. Our rules are no skirts unless they go to your knees. You know that, so why would you wear it? What's wrong with you?" She shakes her head, utterly disgusted with me. "Your father and I taught you to be better than this." She eyes the skinny jeans and black T-shirt I'm wearing. "Maybe we should burn those jeans, too. They look really tight."

 

"These jeans are fine," I mutter, wishing I could stand up for myself once in my life.

 

I wish I could say a lot of things to her: Her standards are too high. I don't think I'll ever be the perfect, proper, church going daughter she wants me to be. I'm nowhere near perfect. Some of the stuff I've done  …  They'd probably lock me up if they knew everything about me.

 

Just open your mouth and tell her you don't want to burn your clothes, that you like the shorts and skirts.

 

My mouth opens, but no sound leaves me lips, and I shake my head, disappointed with myself. Even at eighteen years old, I still feel like a child whenever I'm around my parents.

 

"I'm not going to argue with you." She smooths invisible wrinkles from her turtleneck sweater. It's eighty degrees outside; she has to be sweating to death. But that's how she always dresses, like she's afraid to show even an inch of skin. "After what you did last weekend, you're lucky you're getting off this easy."

 

Easy? Is she kidding me?

 

Gritting my teeth, I grab the lighter fluid and box of matches from her hand and turn to the pile of clothes. The smell of the lighter fluid makes me gag as I douse my beautiful skirts and shorts I've secretly been wearing over the last year.

 

I was always careful not to wear them any place my mom might see me. I'd change into the outfits at school or at one of my friends' houses then change back before I returned home. But last weekend, I was at one of the few parties I've gone to when the cops showed up and forced everyone to call their parents. I didn't have an extra set of clothes with me, so not only did my parents have to come and pick me up from a party, but they saw me in the little black dress I had on.  

 

Burning the clothes is my punishment, and my mom also put a tracking app on my phone so she can keep tabs on me. It's not the first time she has done this, and I'm guessing it won't be the last.

 

"Now the match," my mom says after I've soaked the clothes with lighter fluid.

 

Tears burn my eyes as I pluck a match out of the box, strike the tip against the side, and drop it onto the pile. As the clothes erupt in flames, I have to look away. I stare down at the burn scars on my hands, struggling not to cry.

 

I got the scars when I was younger and our house caught on fire. I can't remember much about what happened, but sometimes, when I'm dreaming, I see myself in a bedroom, about to be burned alive.

 

"This is for the best." My mom's expression sharpens when she notes I'm looking at my scars. "Luna, get over it. We're outside, in the backyard. The house isn't going to burn down." She huffs an aggravated breath when I don't look up then cups my chin with her fingers, forcing me to meet her gaze. "This little phase you've been going through is going to end. Fitting in isn't what's important in life. As long as you live under my roof, you will obey our rules. You will wear clothes I pick out for you. You will never, ever wear a dress or any outfit like that again."

 

I smash my quivering lips together. She doesn't get it. Changing the way I dress isn't about fitting in. It's about being myself.

 

My parents have always been strict with me. They have hardcore beliefs about how people should behave and dress, and I'm expected to live up to those standards. Their beliefs aren't the only reason they're so strict, though. A lot of it has to do with how they were raised.