This short passage highlights the dangers of addictive, self-destroying thoughts.
|She sat, silently, watching the rain drops run off the tiles next door, one by one, until a little waterfall ran down the side of the house. With the rain came the sadness, and with the sadness came the tears. Tears which she would not allow to fall, to sting, to poison her cheeks.
No-one quite understood, and the reason for this was that she didn't even understand herself. Sometimes she just struggled to control her anger, a bitter, twisted anger like an unwanted weed, rooted with remarkable strength back to her own brother.
It was ironic really, as she did many of the things her brother had done. But it didn't matter.
Sometimes she'd sit for a few minutes, sometimes more, watching the world from her window. People drifted by; silhouettes against the earth, their identities hidden to the onlooker, their thoughts enveloped by the events of a previous night or an argument with a friend. Only slight feelings ever broke through the mirage of calm; a creased forehead, the biting of a lip, the audible sigh of impatience. She noticed them: no-one noticed her. Yet, after it all, she didn't mind. Her skin was empty of emotion towards others; she merely took in her environment without comment.
As she undressed, she avoided the mirror on the wall. Tugging at the bottom of her jeans, she pulled them over her feet, folded them and hung them over the back of her chair. Quickly and silently she undid the buttons of her shirt, slipped it off her shoulders and wrapped it round a hanger. Pulling at her vest, trimmed with lace, she caught the slight glimmer of her reflection on the glass. Wincing slightly she traced the line of her collarbone, before reaching for her bun. Wrapping a finger through her tie she glanced at the figure in the mirror as her hair fell past her shoulders. Lifeless and dull. She watched herself scrape it off her face behind her ears. The person in the mirror had so many flaws. She wasn't beautiful; she wasn't anything special. She wasn't even average. Her breasts barely filled her bra. Her milky skin wasn't pure or elegant - it was pale and ghostly. Her thighs were huge. Her stomach was empty, yet not empty enough. It bulged over the waistline of her pants. In her mind, she was the ugliest girl on earth. She saw the person in her head, not the real person in the mirror.
Hot. It was so hot. The more she looked at herself the more her head throbbed and her veins pulsated for air. Her hands gripped tight at her hair and began to pull at the strands sticking to her skin; so tight her scalp turned red and sore. Clawing and hitting at her skin she began to scratch, desperately trying to rid herself of the fat that clung to every inch of her. Yet, though she clawed, nothing in the mirror changed. It never changed. She kicked out, grabbed at the mirror and, with one clenched fist, in one rapid movement, punched straight through it. Screaming, she threw it across the room. She did not feel the pain - she did not feel the shards of glass embedded in her knuckles or the swelling of her fingers; she merely watched as a thin trickle of blood crept quickly and quietly down her hand and a waterfall of ice cascaded to the floor. Wide-eyed she shrieked, she cried and cried and, falling to the floor in the darkest corner of her room, her mind fell dizzy and her eyes clouded over. Like a small child she curled herself up into a ball and rocked. There she sat, alone in her underwear, her forehead caked in sweat, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her frail arms crossed and wrapped tightly around her own waist. Still no tears fell. Gradually, her shrieking was replaced by pitiful moans, interrupted by gasps for air and an overwhelming, all-consuming grief. The seconds ticked on and the rage of minutes prior were replaced with inaudible cries; her mouth open in a pitiful, silent O as her chest rose and fell and the wounds she'd inflicted on herself already started to heal.