Vivienne has skinny wrists and a habit of tucking her hair behind her ears. Her hair is curly but not in perfect ringlets. Sometimes it decides to form a halo of frizz at the top that drives her mad. Her mother used to say she envisioned a time when Vivienne would stop tucking her hair being her ears, in college maybe, where she could let it all loose.

Her mechanical pencils were all 0.5 lead and she likes to line them up on her desk. Even though she prefers to write, she wasn’t afraid of speaking, often she spoke too much. She can be soft like her mother’s velvet and loud like an acid washed pair of pants. She often wondered why they are called a pair of pants, because a pair implies two of something. It’s the little things that get to her, like seeing how small she is in this very big world. She has her friends too and a couple boys she doesn’t hate. She thinks they are small minded.

Vivienne likes to drive in the night. The wind whips her curls and ruffles them up in a nice, windswept way. They make her feel romantic.

She never minded her name, Vivienne. It was French, even though she wasn’t. Vivienne, like a small yellow rose. Vivienne, like a fine wine in a Parisian cafe. It’s the little things that get to Vivienne. Her name meant alive, which was exactly what she was and grateful to be.

She often sits at the dinner table alone with the little gray cat. Francine, they call her. Francine would be fed all of Vivienne’s leftover Chef Boyardee. Francine, the cat, likes Vivienne, but mostly because there was no one else in the small house to be with.

Vivienne’s mom likes to keep her door closed, and not just at night. And her dad? Well he has dropped by the little house as couple times. In 2007, she didn’t even see him once. You’d never know when he’d show up on the doorstep. Vivienne’s mom has a way with her words. She knows how to stab Vivienne in all the right places.

Vivienne’s mom used to be beautiful. Her brown glossy hair fell back on her shoulders in a nice, windswept way, like if she had been driving in a car at night with the windows pulled down. She was romantic. The epitome of allure. Her legs were long but splattered with bruises. They were purple all up and down.
Every morning at 7am, Vivienne would open the door to the bedroom. Equipped with a broom, a dustpan and paper towels she cleaned the shattered bottles and soaked up the remains. Her mother would be a lump in the sheets, her cracked lips unable to say a word, but her bloodshot eyes saying everything. Francine, the small gray cat, would meow and nudge at the lump on the bed. Then at 7:15, Francine and Vivienne would exit the room. She was always careful not to slam the door too loud because her mother would yell. She would carry the shards in a trash bag and dump them out on her way to school.