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4

I wish I could say my days didn't all go in the same direction. I wish I could say my days didn't end the same, that I never went to sleep wishing I never existed in the first place. That there wasn't a stone cold wall between me and happiness. That I was filled with rainbows and unicorns and warm sunshine.

But I can't.
I'm filled with cold suicidal demon pony's.

And they're mean.

-

It was a bad, bad day.
Bloated and ravishing is definitely something you didn't wanted to be greeted with first thing in the morning. Why did hunger exist, why does my brain work this way and why didn't it stop all morning. Even worse on the way to breakfast I remembered some revolutionary information. There were three meals in a day, that's seven times three, twenty one.
That's twenty one times in a week I have to spend supervision play time with Malfoy. That's too much time to spend with someone you're trying to convince that you're normal.

"You're late."

Not late enough.

"It's too early." I muttered, grabbing an apple off the table. "Come on," I nodded. "I'm going back to my room."

He placed his book down casually.
"Not with that you're not."

"Nothing about how much I eat on the sheet."

He said nothing but rolled his eyes.

He followed behind me, striding.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" I huffed.

"Yes."

"Go do it then."

"No."

I mimicked him silently, thinking about everything and anything else on the way back.

When I got back I climbed into bed, placing the apple on the side table. I thought about sinking my teeth into the stunningly appetising red shiny, fast breaking, motherfucker but I knew it would break the seal, the seal of my self control. I pulled the covers over my head wanting to ignore that whole part of my brain. The silence was peaceful and I thought about going back to sleep, or pretending to for a little while, I just didn't want to think about food.

The peaceful silence turned into suspicious silence when I realised I couldn't see or hear anything around me, specifically hear him. I peeked over the top of the duvet, maybe he'd left.
He hadn't.

He was lead against my windowsill, staring at me, shaking my little box.
My box.
The box. Yes that one.

"What's in this?" He turned, examining it inquisitively. The tinkering sound of metal coming from it.

I shot out of bed at lighting speed, snatching it from him. "Not yours." I snapped irritably. He put his hands up showing lack of concern and concisely smirked. "Touchy."

I slid it under my pillow and got back into my bed but I couldn't relax with his presence.
"So why do you do this?" I mutter.

"Have to."

That's what I thought originally, some sort of order as punishment maybe, community service. But with service acts they only last a year.

"No you don't." I sat up. "It would have ended with this new term. He shifted, finally looking away which faltered his confidence briefly. He crosses his arms apprehensively. "You're my last case."

I smiled almost knowingly.
He'd be eager to finish his task eagerly.

Malfoy watched my expression intently.
"Makes me able to prolong it as long as possible." Clearly reading into my smile.

"You're obsessed with me." I stared into his eyes. He stared back. "You wish Milan."

I didn't touch the Apple and he said nothing about it. It's like he knew, knew breakfast was not going to be our biggest problem of the day.

—

Lunch came around quickly, I tried to disguise my emptiness with water and carbonation but the void in my stomach didn't settle. I sat down at the table and practically gulped, the lighthearted atmosphere from breakfast was gone and it was dark. I sighed. As hungry as I was I didn't feel hungry, I didn't feel frail hungry or paper light hungry, I didn't feel weak hungry or needle pricklingly cold hungry.
I felt fat hungry. I was trapped inside the balloon of fat hugging my body. I wasn't me anymore. I felt like crying. I felt like crying because I didn't want to be me anymore, I felt like crying because the feeling of being fat was ruining my life, I felt like crying because I didn't want to be alive anymore.

My eyes welled up and because my head was tilted downwards a tear quickly dropped. I wiped it quickly, subconsciously looking up to catch if it had been noticed. It hadn't but looking up had been noticed and then we locked eyes. He showed no emotion.

All I wanted to do was eat, I wanted to eat.
Why couldn't I do it like before, why couldn't I eat tiny portions and bland foods and feel content. More importantly why did I ever start eating again.

"It's just food. It won't kill you." He suggested.

"You don't fucking get it."
I left. I got up and left.
No one ever gets it.

I got to my room, slamming the door behind me. I felt so stupid. I'm crying over food and the embarrassment made me cry even more. I didn't want to be this way, I didn't ask for this, what did I ever do to deserve this. I started to cry uncontrollably out of the sheer overwhelm in my mind. I would rather physical pain.
Yes, I could change that.

I deserve it.
I deserve the pain because I'm fat.
I deserve the pain because I'm nothing.
I deserve the pain because I'm me.

I felt nothing. Everything else was to much that I felt nothing, a sluggishly dark drowning nothingness. My eyes felt heavy, my brain felt heavy. The worst part was that my body felt heavy, I couldn't even starve myself enough to feel light. Light like I used to.

I grabbed my box, my beautiful box, taking the blade out with it. I pulled my sleeve up revealing my wrist, the piles of scars make it almost pointless, there was no empty skin anymore, layers and layers of pain. I sighed. It wasn't fun when it wasn't smooth skin, I didn't get to see the damage clearly. I was staring at my inner arm, my favourite area, less on show just incase. I turned my arm over.
Smoother.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for some release and I finally made my first cut. It didn't hurt, not yet.
And another one.
And another.
Another.
Just one more.
A few more.
Some deeper ones.
One more to make it even.

Finished. For now.