BOOK BLITZ
Title: Ugly
Author: Margaret McHeyzer
Genre: YA/NA
Release Date: October 26, 2015
BLURB
From New
York Times bestselling author Margaret McHeyzer....
If I were dead, I wouldn't be able to see.
If I were dead, I wouldn't be able to feel.
If I were dead, he'd never raise his hand to me again.
If I were dead, his words wouldn't cut as deep as they do.
If I were dead, I'd be beautiful and I wouldn't be so...ugly.
I'm not dead...but I wish I was.
GOODREADS LINK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25987654-ugly
BOOK TRAILER
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PURCHASE LINKS
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1SaOmO3
iBooks: http://apple.co/1H0ng4g
EXCERPT
Prologue
It’s days like
today I wish I was dead.
“Lily Anderson,
you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after
you,” Daddy screams.
He’s so angry. I
knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my
bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so
hard the windows in my room shook.
And then I knew,
I knew I was in for it.
“Lily Anderson!”
he yells again.
As soon as I
heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway,
wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me
and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.
“Lily Anderson!”
he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain
he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s
coming.
I close my eyes
tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my
ears so I can’t hear him.
“I swear to God;
if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”
My knees are
folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets
I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.
School is safe.
School is safe. School is safe. I keep
repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe
tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and
then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.
It was never like
this before. Ever.
I’m twelve years
old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years
ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.
Well, before Mom
died anyway, and not a day since.
Mom died when I
was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how
ugly I am. How life would be better if I was taken away from them. How I’ll
never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.
Sometimes I dream
happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a
picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat
yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend
hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how
pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it,
and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad
would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad
would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to
catch the clouds.
I love those
dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom
like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell
me how ugly and useless I am.
I feel him
walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his
footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter
and try and breathe as quietly as I can.
Please go away,
Daddy. Please go away.
My heart is
beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think
about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.
Shhh, it’s so
quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a
whisper, not a rattle…nothing.
Maybe Daddy’s
left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s
left...forever.
I take a deep breath
and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.
Slowly I take my
hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at
me. I can’t hear him at all.
Gradually, I
begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But
something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.
I don’t even get
a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my
ponytail and yanks.
“I told you it’d
be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the
closet by my hair.
I’m desperately
trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying
to find traction on the dirty floorboards.
“Please, Daddy.
Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.
“Then your ugly
ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking
worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues
to drag me toward the family room.
That’s when he’s
most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.
He throws me
against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.
I look up and can
see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he
says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“Sorry, Daddy.
Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as
small as possible.
“You’re just too
fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to
scratch at his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I
say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from
where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.
“You ugly fuck.”
He kicks a boot into my leg.
The pain is
instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again,
burying my face into my hands.
But ‘please’
never seems to work.
Nothing does.
I’ve just got to take the beatings,
because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.
AUTHOR BIO
There's something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it's the fact there are 26 letters in the English
alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they're
capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our
minds?
I like to think of myself as 'unique'. My stories aren't for
everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be 'normal'.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who's never been 'bound by
custom' but is 'unique by choice'.
I hope you do read and enjoy my stories.
AUTHOR LINKS
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