SKINTIGHT (Watty Awards 2024)

Chapter 8

18+ GRAPHIC PHYSICAL, EMOTIONAL & SEXUAL VIOLENCE

Violet

I have never hated a building as much as I hate this one. It looks like an old insane asylum, or some kind of haunted house where they breed giant spiders and clowns. The bricks are dark and dirty and the roof panels are practically black. The interior isn't any better. With dark wood panelling, harlequin tiled floors and the world's most outdated chandeliers, this place looks like it's a part of Hogwarts. Of course, every single one of my classes is in this building. That's all there is here — art studios, the student lounge, and the well-being centre. The rest of the campus doesn't look much better, to be honest. The sports centre is right next door and looks just as bad. With all the money those teams make, you'd think they'd be able to modernise it a little, but nope. It's a deliberate decision. They like the aesthetic. It's part of the charm; it's what people want from these historical, private universities.

It's Jacobean — the third ugliest architectural style behind brutalist and constructivist. I learnt all about it in my eighth-grade visual art class. I never would've paid attention to it if it wasn't for my grandma. She had a strange fascination with architecture, and interior design for that matter. My interest in art definitely stems from her. It wasn't from my parents. My dad may have been covered in tattoos, but he couldn't draw a straight line if he tried. I loved those tattoos, though. They fascinated me. He was a walking canvas — decorated in all sorts of artworks and colours. They were so mismatched and messy — a direct contrast to our household.

When I was a kid, everything was neat and organised. Not just our home, but our lives, too. We functioned according to a schedule. We ate dinner at the same time every day and announced our outside activities well in advance. We kept our rooms tidy and our wardrobes organised by colour. Every mess I made would have been cleaned up within half an hour. I couldn't put a bowl out on the counter without it having disappeared five minutes later. We lived our lives based on order and structure.

My mother liked it that way. She wasn't strict or upright, but she didn't like it when things weren't as they should be. It bothered her. If plans changed last minute or something didn't go according to plan, she would get anxious. There were never any particular rules about it and Mum wouldn't have wanted there to be. Dad encouraged us to plan ahead, but he didn't have to. It was more our own doing. Nobody wants to see their Mum upset, and that's exactly what would happen when she got overwhelmed. So, we adhered to our structure.

They say routine is good for children, but at what point does it start to benefit the parent more than the child?

"Psst," Dani whispers. "Psst. Are you alive in there?"

"Hmm?" I glance up at her. She sits across from me at our table, scrolling through her phone. She's clearly not doing any of the studying she's meant to be doing. Her textbook is open, but her workbook is closed.

"I need help."

"What's wrong?"

"I have a date with this guy tonight and I really don't want to go," she turns her phone towards me. "What do I say?"

"Just lie," I shrug. "Tell him you're sick."

I should've done that this morning — convince Dani and Isaiah I had to puke. It wouldn't be a lie, either. I feel like shit today. My muscles hurt and my stomach is, like... cramping or something. I don't know what it is but I feel like I'm about to barf any second now.

"I used that excuse last time."

"This is the second time you're cancelling on him?"

"Yes! I was on my period the first time and now I'm not in the mood."