Everything She Knew
Was A Lie
BY MIKAYLA MILLER
Annabelle rolled over onto her back and stared
up at the ceiling, a sca ered montage of various pictures
from her life, haphazardly taped up in unorganized disar‐
ray. They ranged from when she could yield a camera at
age 5 to yesterday’s homecoming game. That was her
passion, photography. She loved the simplicity of pic‐
tures, the idea that she could have all of her fond memo‐
ries laid out in front of her. Her ceiling seemed like the
best place to display her life, a flat surface that spanned
from every wall of her spacious room. It was the perfect
canvas with the perfect medium.
pres gious lawyer at one of the most successful firms in
all of northern New Jersey. Mr. Adams stood at about
6’1”, with wide shoulders and a muscular build. He wasn’t
big but he was definitely in shape. With a strict a tude
and appearance, his very presence let you know of his
authority.
Si ng up, her feet dangled inches from the cold,
hardwood floor. This was because she was very small and
pe te, only about 5’4”, leaving a seemingly massive space
from her king sized bed to the floor. She yawned and
stretched, her spine popping in several places. She looked
at the heavily tapestried window and sighed, unable to
tell the weather or me due to the thick fabric. Lazily, she
slid from her bed to the floor and walked across her
room, to the door, pulling it open slowly.
Annabelle wiped her eyes as the sun poured into
her room, making the floor shine wildly and ligh ng up
the vibrant colors painted on her wall. Her father was in
the hallway, one hand rested on the door of his bedroom
as he pulled it shut, the other wrapped around the handle
of his briefcase. His name was Ma hew Adams, Mr. Ad‐
ams really, he was the type of man you would never find
saying the phrase, “Please, call me Ma hew.” He was a
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“Isn’t it a li le late to be simply rolling out of bed,
Annabelle?” Mr. Adams reprimanded her gently. S ll, she
blushed, “Sorry, father, late night.” Silently Annabelle
scolded herself for giving such an awful excuse, the look
on Mr. Adams face told her it wasn’t enough. “Let’s not
make a habit of it,” He added, raising his eyebrows at her,
as if asking, “Am I understood?” Annabelle nodded and
waited politely for him to move first, ending their conver‐
sa on.
Mr. Adams sighed and with a calm stride, he
moved from his door down the staircase. Annabelle took
a deep breath before she slowly crept down the stairs,
res ng one hand on the bannister and le ng it glide
across the smooth, polished surface. When she reached
the bo om, her mother, Jayde, was kissing Mr. Adams on
the cheek before he headed out the door for work.
Jayde looked like the stereotypical housewife, her
dark auburn hair was always pulled up elegantly; her
makeup was always perfectly applied well before any
eyes would see her, she wore imprac cal dresses and
heels, considering most of her days were spent in the
house. Jayde didn’t need to cook because in their luxury