Hated

Out of Hell. Not in Heaven

I throw my stuff on the couch and run into my room, like I do everyday. I reach for the one thing that can keep me stable. There is a small scale behind my closet, in a compartment only me and my brother know about.

My brother is the boy every girl dreams about dating. Spiky black hair with a six pack to kill. Johnny always wears the right amount of axe anytime he is around the ladies, which is all the time. All my friends adore him even though he is a year younger than me.

His blue eyes the same shade as mine. Our fathers may be different, but we have the same personality all the way through. I think we got it from our mom before she found vodka. I can’t really remember those days very well.

My brother is in his room, probably listening to dubstep. Good. That way he won’t hear my suffering when I break the scale and the plastic and glass explodes underneath my fat.

I stepped on the scale and prayed for a number that wouldn’t throw me over the edge. And by edge, I mean the side of a bridge, or with a knife cutting all the blood out of my veins. Maybe I’ll just take the easy way out and chug a bottle of pills.

I step on. The light blinks up again. I close my eyes, hoping the number would just be at zero and I could get over all this diet. The scale in the bathroom was good, but my own scale is one I know no one could find and mess with. For all I know my brother could have changed it to read 10 pounds more. You can never trust.

It blinks. Once. Twice. Fat. 155.9. A disgusting number for a disgusting person. Did I expect to lose fifty pounds today? No. Did I expect to stop being so fat, to feel better, to not hate my body anymore? Yes. Did it happen? No.

I put the scale back behind the closet and lay on my bed. Nothing can make the pain go away. No one can help me when I’m down. Nothing can pick me back up, no one can stop the pain from running through my veins. Bringing pain will take it away.

My nails are long and somewhat pointy. My right pointer finger has a hangnail, just sharp enough to do some damage. Something no one would expect a cutter to use as a tool. I take off my jeans and put on my tie-dye pink shorts. Moving my right short, I put my nail to my leg. I make 3 deep lines on my leg. The pain runs through my veins and shows itself by pushing out 2 drops of blood. Who would think of your nail to be the most harmful thing a cutter could use?

Droplets of blood starts dripping down my leg as I start cutting more, though not as deep as the first three. I lose count after the first fifty slices. My nail becomes more and more dull, and it becomes more and more painful, as though someone keeps poking me with needles, each one getting a little bit bigger.

I stand up and limp into the bathroom. Grabbing onto the walls for extra support so I don’t pass out from the lack of food. I finally make it in and sit on the toilet, lid down. I roll a wad of toilet paper around my hand and press it against my leg, making me bit down on my lip until it bleeds so I don’t scream out in pain.

When the bleeding slows down, I stand back up and walk back into my room. Probably not the best thing to do after nearly bleeding out in the bathroom, but I am so light headed all I want to do is fall asleep and wish this day to be gone.