“Oh please, not this gothic attire again, Pearl.” My mother snorted at me as I entered the family living room.

‘Please, not this again’ sighing deeply I took my seat at the dining table. Of course In her mind, goths wear black and because I’m wearing black, I must be a goth. Such narrow minded thinking is the exact reason why I don’t plan on staying here very long. She may be the woman who gave me life, however that doesn’t reflect on her attitude towards me as an individual. This society has jaded itself with prejudice and stereotypes for centuries, I know. But to hear such ignorance come from your own mother does leave a sour taste in your mouth.

‘I just think darling, why dress like your going to a funeral. The sun is shining, why not add some colour to your wardrobe.’ I barely listen as she carries on. Merely wearing black jeans and black t shirt is far from funeral attire. I tune out her waffling by turning my attention out the window to the garden, our large willow tree, lightly swaying; it’s vines dancing in the gentle breeze.

Before uttering another word, I find myself approaching the glass panelled doors from our quant kitchen. Faintly able to hear my mothers words as I continue to ignore her.

Steadily, I make my way to the willow tree, sunlight dancing through its leaves. Unknowingly I decided that’s what I was going to do for the day, sit under the willow tree, alone; daydreaming as the world goes by around me.