by Willow Hart
Part of a story in the young adult genre. Themes unsuitable for under 13s. May continue.
September 4th, 2007
I check that the door is locked tighly behind me. I don't want them to hear me. I push the back of a chair against the handle, just to make sure no one can get in. I don't want them snooping. This is for my concern only. It has nothing to do with them. Taking a deep breath, I cross over to my full-length mirror, which is propped up by the wall on the opposite side of my bedroom. The curtains are closed, very good. Now no one can see me, I'm sure of it.
I stand in front of the mirror, look at its rustic ornate frame for a moment, then draw my eyes back to my reflection. I know it's me, but I just can't see myself in the girl standing in front of me. She has the same golden-brown hair as me. Her eyes are the same colour green. But somehow, it's not me. I close my eyes for a second, then gather up as much confidence as I can. I have to be ready for this. I steady myself, then slowly, very slowly, I begin to unbutton my shirt. It takes minutes, several nerve-wracking, lethargic minutes, before the material falls away and lands on the cream carpet beneath my feet. I gasp, my heart thumping, as I realise what I'm looking at. But I can't face that now. The time will come later.
I move on to my jeans, unzipping slowly, then pulling the stiff denim from my legs numbly, my fingers fumbling at the buttons, as I shake with nerves. I've done this so many times; though each time feels like the very first. The jeans come off, and land on the floor next to my shirt. I take off my socks, wincing faintly as I bend down. I straighten up, my shoulders heaving, my head spinning with the thought of what comes next.
I force myself to look at my new reflection. Now it looks like me. I see myself in the reflection, I recognize myself. However much I hate seeing it, I know it's true. This is what I really look like. I take in the dark, mottled brusing which covers my stomach, I see my pink bloated thighs, I stare in horror at my sore and swollen chest, tender and uncomfortable. I run my hands up and down each curve, feeling my way around my atrociously suggestive wide hips, my thick waist, my skinny calves that look like chicken's legs more than a human's. It's humiliating to see and to realise what I am; a bloated, out-of-proportion freak of a girl. I can't face it. Tears spring to my eyes, blistering my eyeballs. I feel myself welling up. This is all too real, too menacing. I must do something, fast. I look down at my arms, lined with pale pink scars, some short and some long. I take a good, long look. And then, I realise what I have to do. It's what I've done every time I look at myself like this for months and months.
My breath short, my heart pounding, I carefully step over the clothes piled onto the floor to get to my chest of drawers. My fingers numb, I open the bottom drawer clumsily, banging my wrist on the knob of the drawer. I pull it out, then rummage deeply, tears now filling my eyes so quickly that it stings. This will help. I know it will. It makes me feel better. It really does.
I manage a smile to myself, a weak one, as I finally find what I'm looking for. In my hand, is a small, rectangular razor. Small, but very sharp. It's perfect. Breathing so hard now my lungs might explode, I walk back to my bed, and sit down, my legs now shaking in time with my arms and shoulders. I turn my hand so that the underside of my forearm is exposed. I can feel the tears ready to come, and I blink, letting a few fall down my hollow cheeks. I don't make any effort to brush them away.
I lay the razor, blade-down, against the pale skin. I steady my hand, not wanting it to slip. My grip firm, I set my mouth into a hard line, and squeeze my eyes shut. I need to do this. I need to. It's the only way.
I make one, long, swiping movement downwards. The effect is immediate. I squeal in pain as the sharp razor blade tears at my paper-like skin, opening my arm to the air. Tears stream down my face. I pull the razor away. I can see the blade is glistening with blood. My blood. I watch it fill up the wound, then trickle down the sides of my arm. My lip trembles. I press the blade to my skin again, for the second swipe. It has the same effect, letting my dirty blood spill out of my dirty, unhealthy body. I need to rid myself of the impurities.
When I'm done, I set the razor down on my bed, and look down at my arm. Two cuts. Two clean, perfect cuts. They're stinging painfully now, a sharp, piercing pain, but I don't care. It's the way I want it to be. It's the only way I can get all the bad things out of my body before they make my body blow up out of control.
I stay sitting on the bed for hours, just crying and crying and crying.