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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1283264
Rated: 13+ · Draft · Young Adult · #1283264
About a girl who is losing control and is falling apart. - a work in progress -
She stormed into her room, bolting the door behind her.  Panting hard she leaned against it briefly, before allowing her body to slide down to the floor.  With balled fists she glared at her red-faced reflection in the mirror opposite.  Leaning her head back against the cool door she fought to control her emotions, but the harsh voices that had driven her to her only refuge were still seeking her out.

The more they yelled, the faster her control slipped away, until finally she rose trembling, and grabbed a knife from a nearby shelf.  She fingered it slowly, caressing it, contemplating her next move.  Her mind focused now.  The blade moved swiftly, deliberately, like it knew the path alone.  The deed was done and the weapon was cast aside, flying across the room to drive deep into the wall.  Evidence of its past started to slide down the wall.

The girl sighed, satisfied that her demons would leave her be for a while, she collapsed into her chair.  The voices were silent now.  She closed her eyes and breathed softly, finding comfort in the silence.

Lydia was roused from her stupor by a quiet dripping beside her.  Through bleary eyes she glanced to her side.  Her bemused gaze took it all in slowly, mechanically, analysing it bit by bit.  A few moments later, her brain finally registered the sight.  Her eyes snapped wide open and her mouth gave way to a gasp and a moan.  The deep gash in the back of her left hand bled steadily, blood flowing down to her fingertips, only to drop and pool on the floor below her, as her arm hung limply.

Instinct took over.  Rising carefully, Lydia steered herself over to her little bathroom and bathed her wound beneath the cool running water.  Reaching under the sink she found the disinfectant, and between her own wincing and flinching she managed to clean up her newest gash.  Finally she bandaged it up with the ease that comes with practice.

Calmly Lydia returned to the main room and peered through the curtains beside the door.  The path from the granny flat to the rest of the house was bare.  Had her parents followed her out at all?  “No doubt they were just glad to have me out of their hair again, “ she supposed.  Letting the curtain swing back into place, she turned and climbed onto her bed, glad that she didn’t live over in the house with the rest of her family, who so obviously hated her.  Closing her eyes, she willingly allowed herself to fall back into the darkness and let it wrap itself around her.  She dwelt there content, whispering to herself, “Nobody can hurt me here…nobody can see me…I’m safe…”

“Lydia!  Breakfast!  Lydia?” her mother’s voice came loudly through the intercom.  Without thinking Lydia rose, pressed the talk button and gave a monotone, “Yeah, I’m coming, “ in reply.  Looking at the clock she noticed it was eight in the morning, she’d slept over twelve hours.  She pulled on a jacket and made her way over to the house.  There she collected her meal from her mother, hiding her bandaged hand beneath her sleeve.  Surprised by the cheerful moods her parents were in, she paused and gave them each a sharp look.  They looked a little stunned at her gaze.  She turned and headed back down to the quiet emptiness of the small flat in the yard.

Dodging the blood that still stained the white tiles, she took a seat at her desk.  Upon bringing some food to her mouth, she found her lips sealed tight.  She dropped the fork back on the plate and let forth a frustrated sigh mumbling, “Guess you don’t want to eat today.”
After dumping yet another meal into the trash, she cleaned the floor of blood.  Then she retrieved the knife from the wall and wiped both the wall and blade clean.  Running her fingers over the hole, she was rather surprised that the knife even got there.  Lydia then sunk onto the couch and wondered how best to waste this Sunday.


She glanced at the clock on her bedroom wall for what seemed like the hundredth time today.  It was 4:45pm and the numbers swam before her eyes.  She was sweating heavily and gasping for breath, as she swayed dizzily from the vigorous exercises she’d been forcing herself through for much of the afternoon.

Lydia allowed herself a glass of water.  Gulping it down greedily, she laid a shaky hand against the sink to brace her trembling form.  Gradually the room came back into focus.  Leaving the kitchenette, she hurried into her bathroom and stripped bare.  She turned on the shower and sat beneath the flowing water, scrubbing her skin hard.  The girl was pink and raw as she towelled herself try several minutes later.

Still in the bathroom, it was 5 o’clock now.  She cast the towel aside and stepped nervously onto her scales.  Focusing intently, she awaited the result.  Thinking of all the work she’d done, she was sure she’d done more than enough.  No.  She weighed the same as she did at 5 o’clock yesterday.  “Not good, not nearly good enough.  How is this even possible?”  She questioned herself.  “I did everything right.”  She despairingly turned away from the scales, only to find her own face staring back at her from the mirror opposite.

“How dare you!” the girl glared.  “How dare you let me down like this?  You horrific, fat bitch!  No one will ever love you while you’re so damn fat and ugly!”

A single tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek.  She angrily wiped it away, but another promptly took its place, and another.  She tried to argue, and defend herself.  No explanation would ever be good enough.  Beaten again the girl collapsed to the floor, drew her knees to her chest, and sobbed as quietly as she could.

“You’re weak Lydia.  Straighten up and follow my rules,” the voice in her head announced.  “Then you will be skinny and pretty, and maybe even popular!”  The voice grew colder, “Do what I say from now on.  Stop breaking the rules.  I’m not playing games anymore!”

Her knife had found it’s way into her hand once more.  Blood spilled as a small neat “X” was carved carefully into her hip.  “Strike one.  You have failed me once.  I’m serious now.  Three strikes, and you’re out.”  Lydia nodded obediently as tears once again blurred her vision.

© Copyright 2007 lil Rae (lilrae at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1283264