Willow Needs Help

10

Listen to the song while reading!
Song: Chemtrails Over The Country Club - Lana Del Rey
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⚠️ TW: Descriptions of disordered eating & body dysmorphia
Descriptions of sexual assault ⚠️
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IT IS THE NEXT DAY. Nothing beats the ray of sunlight that is shone through the small opaque window in our gloomy bathroom. The window isn't see through, but the light is intelligent, dominant in-fact. It still finds its way in, often greeting me with its strikingly glorious appearance and friendly nature. I usually shower without noticing the beaming light, it's hard to notice spellbinding things when you are trapped in your own world of misery and anguish, wanting to mercilessly slice off the throats of those imbeciles who have tormented you, infecting your entire being with their ruthless and stony disease.

My dirty self is currently being cleansed by my pure shower water. The memories- nightmares just wouldn't go away. It's like my brain doesn't want me to escape the torment, doesn't want me to be sane - It keeps pushing my mortifying and unwanted evocation of pain to the very top of my already corrupted mind.

Was I born into this world just to be raped and neglected?

Last night after dinner, I remember making a beeline upstairs into my room to escape the dinner table. I couldn't stand my brothers, our relationship was in a state of dilapidation. No one communicated with each other, or rather, no one communicated with me.

To be fair, I too, have secrets of my own that I haven't told them.

And everyday I hold onto my stuffed pink cat plush for dear life, praying and hoping in cold sweat that my brothers would never find out about my secret. They have already been through enough, I don't want to be a burden to them. I bet they feel the same about their own secrets.

Yesterday night after dinner, I went into my bathroom. I usually go into my bathroom to throw up, to feel in control of my body. But that time, it was different. No, I didn't vomit my food that time. But instead, I met myself.

I met the girl in the mirror, I met her agony. The dark circles under her eyes, the visibleness of her collarbones, the suffering of her rib cage. The girl in the mirror wasn't doing well physically. The girl in the mirror was hurt. The girl in the mirror felt like the whole world was against her. The girl in the mirror was fifteen.

However, despite all of this, the girl felt in control. This is what she did to her own body. No one could do anything about her eating habits, no one could control her.

No one could control her.
No one could control her.

And she loved it.

Deep down in her ever so lifeless soul, the girl knew that she shouldn't love the horrendous condition of her body. She understood that it was unhealthy and wrong. A fifteen-year-old's body should be full of life, excitement, energy, enthusiasm. But instead, the scwany body in the mirror stared back at her, asking the rhetorical question; "Are you happy with how you look?"

Even though it was a rhetorical question, the girl still didn't know the answer. The thing that made the whole ordeal all the more eerie was that she was smiling the whole time. The answer to the question whether she was happy with how she looked or if her smile was real or not will probably never see the light of day. Hopefully, the girl would eventually scream out the answers and say; "I fucking hate the way I look!" Or "My smile was faker than my mother's love for me!"