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Betty often likened herself to a house made of straw.
She was haphazardly stacked without structure or foundation. Sure, with all the stalks packed close together and tied tight with twine, she looked steady enough. But the pieces on the outside always came a little loose, and when the wind blew through town so did little parts of her.
"I need girls with fire," Cheryl had said, and Betty shivered. She was morbidly aware of just how fragile and flammable she was, how quickly the hay in her would burn right up. Even on good days Betty struggled to shake the fear that one wrong move would send what was left of her tumbling down, so she'd be damned if she let herself go up in smoke.
Betty clenched her fists, turned on her heel, and walked away.
Despite herself and her supposed better judgement, Betty couldn't help but envy Cheryl. Cheryl seemed built of bricks, steady and strong, with flames burning in the hearth but an exterior still cool to the touch. Betty longed to be like her. She imagined how Cheryl must construct herself brick by brick, using her rage as cement and sealing herself together, only growing taller. She may be coarse and grooved but she was undeniably cohesive, every part of her connected and unmoving.
Betty didn't feel steady on her feet until she made it outside and released the tension in her palms. The drops of red under her fingernails always made her feel just a little more solid. She reveled in the assurance that she was made of cells and blood, living and real instead of stuffed with straw.
She knew it wasn't right; knew she would have to change. But for now, it was all she could do to keep herself standing.