All That You Are

[Cactus]

The most unnerving thing, Ariana thought to herself as she quietly shuffled down the corridor along with the rest of the line, was the noise. Everything seemed to echo, but at the same time, it felt as though they were slowing moving through an echo chamber. Nervously, she played with the oversized sleeve on her sweatshirt. A knot in the pit of her stomach wouldn't go away. It hadn't for the entirety of the five-hour drive, and only now did she realize that eating something more substantial than a small bag of Skittles might have been a good idea.

This wasn't her first time in prison, but that didn't make it any less intimidating.

((Ariana Moretti continued from Make A New Cult Every Day, though not chronologically))

Finally coming to a stop, the line of people all shifted uncomfortably, some making casual conversation with one another, none making all that much noise. Perhaps there was something about visiting a friend or loved one in prison, but it seemed difficult for any of them to truly show a whole lot of joy. Her father had dropped her off and gone to check in at the motel they'd booked nearby, informing her that he was but a phone call away. Franco Moretti had made this particular visit once or twice, but seeing someone who had betrayed his family in the most base way was not something that interested him. Perhaps in years past, but he had moved on.

So here she stood, fidgeting with her sweatshirt, waiting. Ariana shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Prison notwithstanding, she felt uncomfortable. A big part of it was the growth spurt that had snuck up on her over the Christmas holiday. One day she'd been exhausted, and the next? Suddenly none of her jeans fit properly anymore. It was mildly frustrating to suddenly not fit any of your clothes, but somewhat more concerning were the looks that she'd started to get from some of her classmates at school. At first, she thought she'd imagined it. She was used to being the centre of attention - her voice carried and she was no stranger to sharing her opinion. That sometimes offered the odd strange look or aggravated glare. That she could deal with!

It was the second-too-long stares or the people whose heads suddenly snapped away as she looked in their direction that started to unnerve her. Particularly one afternoon when she'd noticed a male faculty member do it. That had really rattled her cage. It was a memory she preferred not to think about, and she'd worn a large hoodie (this particular one, in fact) in his class every time since. It took one particularly intense soccer practice for her to realize that puberty was starting to rear its ugly head and that perhaps a training bra wasn't going to be enough anymore. Indeed, she was becoming a woman, and her first-ever period a week later had confirmed that adolescence was in full swing. It was something that she thought she'd been prepared for. She'd gone online, read articles, even asked the odd question of some of the older girls on the team who'd already gone through it, but still...

Reading about something and experiencing it were two very different things.

Bless the heart of her father, he had tried everything that a single father could to help guide his daughter through a difficult time, but there had been a lot of bumbling, a few fights, and in the end, it had left both of them feeling helpless. Ariana felt like a stranger in her own body at times, and Franco Moretti didn't know what he could say or do to make her feel any better. Things had been strained between them for a while, and Ariana had opted to hide herself, to pretend that the changes she was going through weren't happening. It was why the teenager now stood in line in the jail cell, looking like a throwback out of a 1990s music video. Baggy cargo pants, a hooded sweatshirt that was a size too big, and a pair of black Chuck Taylors were not a look that screamed 'fashionista', and her black hair was constantly wrapped back in a shoulder-length ponytail. It was all she could to do escape the stares.

So many stares.

Some were lecherous; some innocent. But all drew attention to her that she didn't want. She was a little girl, so why did they have to look at her? It wasn't fair.

"Open, visitation room outer door!"

The voice boomed out from the front of the hallway, and Ariana heard a loud buzzing that hurt her ears a little. She shrunk down a bit more from the sound, seeming to drown just a little bit more in her clothing. This wasn't a friendly place. Not a good place to be. Of course it wasn't, she thought as she moved forward. This was a prison. This was where you went when you couldn't follow the rules of society. This was where you ended up when you did wrong.

It was a strange place for a teenage girl to visit her mother.

As the line moved closer and closer to the door into the visitation room, Ariana's stomach did a backflip and tied itself in knots. She'd come this far; there was no turning back. Fiddling with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, she waited as the threshold got closer and closer, and with a deep breath, she stepped through into the larger room. The myriad of people ahead of her in line were pausing, scanning for their relatives, and rushing to whichever table or corner of the large room they managed to find them in. Ariana herself stopped and slowly let her eyes scan the area. There were tables all around the centre of the room, much like picnic tables, and coffee stations and vending machines bordered it. Guards stood at the corners of the room, one or two others pacing through the middle to ensure that nothing serious happened between prisoner and visitor. A chill went down Ariana's spine. She didn't want to be here. She really didn't want to be here and it would be really easy to turn around the other way and run out and-

There she was.

They locked eyes, and Ileana Moretti gave her daughter a small smile and a wave from across the room. It had been years since Ariana and her mother had seen one another, and time had actually been kind to the elder Moretti woman. Her hair only had a few small lines of grey and her face had an absence of worry lines and wrinkles. If she didn't know any better, Ariana thought that her mother could still have worked at the bank and was taking lunch off to visit her daughter. All that was missing was the business suit. But of course, she did know better. Her mother sat at the far end of the waiting room, and the distance seemed endless as she slouched over to the table. Her mother sat up a bit straighter as she approached, barely hiding her enthusiasm for the visit. As she came to a stop beside the table, Ileana stood, the two women unsure how to greet one another. Per the rules of the prison, visitors were allowed a quick embrace or handshake before physical contact was no longer permitted. Ariana hesitated.

The woman in front of her felt like a stranger.

Uncomfortably, Ariana glanced down at the floor and shifted awkwardly, unsure of what move to make. Her mother decided for her, stepping towards her and extending her into an embrace. The hug felt empty to her, though she supposed that it was probably the price for the favour she was asking, and so she reciprocated as much as she was able. Indeed, when the two women separated, Ileana wore a bigger smile than before as she gestured for her to sit down. Once again, it felt like a business meeting or a luncheon. She slid into the seat, exhaling sharply as she could feel the cold metal through her jeans. The tables, like everything else, were bolted down. Her mother fell into the chair across from her, still smiling, and took the lead; much as she always had.

"Ariana, I," she started, but interrupted herself with a happy laugh, "I can't believe you're actually here."

Pensively, she nodded in agreement, not letting her cards down. "I know. But here I am."

"When you called, I almost couldn't believe it. It's been a long time, hun."

Ariana tensed at the term of endearment. In her mind, her mother hadn't earned it. She had forfeited that right the second she'd received her sentence. Even still, the moment she'd let them down. Looking away from her mother, she gave the rest of the room a quick glance. No one was staring now. Everyone else was involved in the sad reality of visiting a loved one or a client in prison.

"It has." She wasn't giving away much. This had been her idea and she'd been all for it in principle, but now that she sat here? There was too much emotion for her to sort through, so she tried her best to ignore it. She absently scratched her left arm with her right hand. Ileana saw there was nothing more forthcoming and continued for her.

"You look good. You've," she paused, adding meaning to her words, "grown since the last time you came to visit."

Biting the inside of her lip, Ariana tried not to react to the pointed comment from her mother. They both knew exactly why she'd come - on the phone, Ariana had mentioned that she had been having trouble with certain things about getting older, but she hadn't elaborated. Seeing her in the flesh probably filled a lot of Ileana's blanks in, and much like she'd been warned by her father, the woman couldn't resist taking the upper hand in the conversation. It was fine; she could have it. Silence speaking volumes, Ileana straightened up a little, assuming a more authoritative air.

"You look a lot like I did at your age. My hair was a bit longer, but," she leaned over to pay closer inspection to Ariana's hair, "more or less, almost a spitting image." Ileana lowered her voice a few octaves, almost whispering. "Have you gotten your pe-"

"Mom!"

Eyes widening, Ariana loudly hushed her. Lowering her own voice, she nodded. "Yes. A few weeks ago. Dad was really good about it. He explained everything. That isn't why I'm here."

Chuckling a bit, Ileana nodded herself and leaned back a little. The sterile jailhouse benches didn't have backs, but her posture relaxed all the same.

"Of course. I'm sure your father did his best."

Ariana frowned, snapping herself out of her uncomfortable, awkward state. Her mother; this woman, this stranger in front of her could say many things, but talking her father down wasn't one of them. She wouldn't stand for that. So she pointed a finger across the table.

"You're damn right he has. I'm lucky that I have him. My life is great," she flung the next words across the table, "because of him."

The older woman shrugged her shoulders dismissively. "Okay. Yet, you've come to visit. I take it there's something that he wasn't able to help you with. Why else would you have called?"

The lack of feeling in her words sent a chill down Ariana's spine. When the idea of reaching out to her mother had been brought up, Franco had sat his daughter down and had a very frank conversation about certain truths that he'd never disclosed to her regarding her mother. Ariana was conscious of certain psychological disorders, but he had warned her that reading about things and experiencing them firsthand were two very different things. As cold as she may have been, the woman was right. Ariana had come to seek her counsel. Seeing the fearful look creep upon her face, her mother straightened up a bit and held up her hands in a 'surrender' gesture.

"Okay, look. I'm sorry. That was out of line. I have no right to criticize your father for anything. She smiled, nodding to her. "By the looks of it, he's raising quite an impressive young woman. I'm not sure what he's told you about me," she grimaced, "but it's probably all true. Notwithstanding all of that, you are my daughter."

Ariana could see that her mother was letting her guard down - or at least, allowing the appearance of doing so.

"You're important to me. I do care about you. So tell me what's going on."

Picking at the end of her sweater, she nodded and allowed her own guard to drop a bit. However much she believed her mother was up for her own interpretation, but she'd driven hours, she may as well get to the root of the visit.

"So... you've noticed. I'm," she paused, searching for the right word, "growing up." She leaned in a bit closer. "And people won't stop fucking staring at me."

The fire started to burn within her, and she continued.

"Every time I walk into a room, it's just... eyes. Up and down. I turn around and catch people staring at me. They can't make eye contact. It's fucking awful, and it's not just other kids. Teachers, people at the store, on the bus... I caught someone's fucking parent looking at me on the soccer pitch last month! Like what the hell? How do you deal with this? I'm fourteen years old!"

Her voice was starting to get louder and louder, and Ileana, who now understood exactly what the issue was, put a hand on her daughter's hand to stifle her naturally loud voice. Ariana caught herself and stopped before she was almost yelling.

"It's embarrassing, mom. I don't want people staring at me anymore."

Ileana looked up as one of the patrolling guards walked past. The armed woman had obviously caught the tail end of Ariana's frustrated proclamation, and actually shot Ileana a sympathetic look - not guard to prisoner, but woman to woman. Returning the gesture with a quick raise of her eyebrows, Ileana looked back at her frustrated daughter and smiled kindly at her.

"Oh, sweetheart. Welcome to the reality of being a woman. People are always going to stare. They can't help themselves." This had not been what Ariana had expected to hear, and her mouth dropped a little in surprise.

"But I-"

Her mother cut her off.

"Men can't help but stare at a beautiful woman as she enters the room, no matter how old she is. It's hard-wired in their makeup. Their brains tell them that they have to do it," she smirked, "because deep down, even the best men are pigs."

Ileana held one finger up.

"However, this is actually a good thing for you." She gestured at the baggy sweatshirt. "I take it that's why you're dressed like you just crawled out of an alleyway?"

Ariana's mouth was still slightly agape as she slowly nodded, her cheeks getting redder. She instinctively played with the sleeve of her sweater some more.

"What do you mean, 'a good thing'?"

"People are always going to look. You can't control that. What you can control," Ileana leaned forward a bit, "is what they see. Clothes are a message, Ariana. Your look is the first thing that people see when you walk in a room. Whether or not they're distracted by your body is in the eye of the beholder. But you control how your message gets out."

Ariana furrowed her brow a bit. Her mother had a point, but it was a bizarre way to say it. It almost sounded like she was explaining a marketing strategy, so she said as much.

"Mom, I'm not a billboard, I'm a-"

"No, you're not. But you are a young woman who has a lot in front of her; so much potential. You're my daughter, after all. If you can control the way that you're seen, then you can control the doors that are opened for you."

Ileana smiled conspiratorially.

"And if there's one thing that men love to do, it's hold the door open for a pretty lady."

Again, a chill ran down Ariana's spine, but she knew that her mother wasn't wrong. It was a fact - in the United States, attractive people had an easier time. Being overweight, or unattractive, or unappealing was like playing adolescence on hard mode. That was what almost every book, every website, every health class said without actually saying it. Aesthetics were valued, and if nothing else that her mother was saying, it was that which she needed to understand.

As Ileana started to pose her questions about her sweatshirt and her wardrobe, Ariana found herself starting to open up to the woman across from her. It was an unusual way to interact with one's mother - the whole thing still felt more like a business meeting than an emotional family reunion. Of course, she knew that emotions had nothing to do with it. Her mother was incapable of feeling them like she was - that had been the number one thing that her father had warned her about. It wasn't her fault per se, it was just the way that she was. But even still, as the two women spent the entirety of the visiting period speaking on fashion, Ariana couldn't help but feel as though her mother cared about her. Maybe she was assigning a value to an imaginary relationship that she'd never had growing up, but when Ileana had told her that she cared, Ariana... believed her. More importantly, the incarcerated woman had been right on the money with some of her observations. What she said made sense, though the idea of 'gaming' her look felt wrong. She didn't want to use an unfair advantage to get ahead. She wanted to make her own way, to find her own path. Least of all did she want to end up like her mother.

This was no way to live.

The two spoke for the entire visitation period, and it gave Ariana much to think about. Even as she'd hugged her mother goodbye and endured the slow departure process, her mind raced with all of the new information that she'd been given. She would have to follow up, and her mother had likely planned it that way. The advice had been almost clinical, like a doctor seeing a patient. It was unsettling, but she did feel as though a piece of her own personal puzzle had been finally put into place.

As she stepped out of the prison walls, she turned to face the complex itself. Like most prisons, it was a nasty-looking place, the fence designed to deter any escape, with prison guards stationed in high towers for all to see. It seemed as though a cloud hovered over the building, even though it was a nice day out; the sun shining down on everything. Reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt to grab her reacquired cell phone, Ariana absently scrolled down to her father's contact, hesitating before she dialled it. The visit had been helpful, and yet...

She swore to herself - whatever happened, she would never end up here. She would not follow in the footsteps of her mother. No matter where her advice took Ariana, this place would never be her life. Any decisions she made, any moves she took - she would always remember that her actions had consequences. For herself, and for the ones around her. Ileana Moretti didn't seem to understand - or care - about the difference between right and wrong, and it had landed her in this horrible place.

For her daughter, that difference was crystal clear, and it was a difference she planned to spend her life on the right side of.

She let her finger dial the number, and the familiar, comforting voice of her father picked up on the other end. He'd likely been waiting by his phone, she thought with a wry smile.

"Hey, Daddy. I'm ready to go." Ariana listened for a moment and nodded. "Yeah, it was fine. Weird, but... fine." She paused, turning away from the prison. "Can we," she sounded the words out, as though they were foreign to her.

"Can we go shopping? I think I have a few things I need to pick up."

((ARIANA MORETTI MEMORIES CONCLUDED))