Met Online

Chapter 7

Hero56 sent you a picture message

I'm staring at a pixelated image of a naked chest. The skin is strained against a set of ripped muscles and the color of his skin is a deep tan that can only occur when one spends endless of hours outside in the summer sun. As magnificent as the sight of it is it's not at all what I expected. I feel a little uncomfortable staring at a half naked boy during school hours, but there's no one in the bathroom but me.

Princess123: that's it? I ask him a little skeptical. 

Hero56: impressive, huh?

Princess123: what's a picture of a naked chest going to prove? I double tap on the screen until it zooms into the edge of the picture to see if I can spot any hint of a face. Nothing, nada, rien.

Hero56: don't insult me - ever seen a six-pack like that on a 40-years-old creeper? As much as I try I can't help but roll my eyes at his message. It's so him. His sarcastic comments and oversized ego has become a part of my everyday and as much as they can annoy me I don't think he would be the same Justin without them.

Princess123: you're stupid, I tell him.

Hero56: but you like it princess ;)

I hit the writing tap, about to type up a new message for him when the door to the bathroom creaks open behind me and then falls shut against it's frame. I raise my gaze from the screen of my phone to the wall of mirrors in front of me and as my eyes locks on her's my body freezes up until there's nothing left but sheer panic going off as a red buzzer in my head.

"What are you doing in here?" she asks with a raised eyebrow the minute she sees me. I'm staring at her, through the mirror, with an expression that reminds me of a dear caught in the headlights. "Are you just going to stand there and look stupid or are you going to say something?" 

"I ..." I start but can't seem to find it in me to finish the sentence. 

"That's what I thought," she says as she comes to a stop next to me and places her book bag on top of the counter, in between two sinks. "Too busy staring at yourself in the mirror?" she asks me as she applies a coat of lipgloss. When she's done she slips the tube of sticky pink gloss back inside the front pocket of her bag. Then she turns to me to speak. "Tell me; do you ever have nightmares about your own reflection?" She's not expecting an answer; I can see it in her eyes. She just wants to see me react as she throws punches after punches at me in the form of crumbled up, verbal slaps. "I know I do. In fact, it comes back to hunt me every night, so why don't you just do both of us a favor and disappear?" I open my mouth again to speak but I regret it immediately and shut it closed again, begging that she hasn't noticed. "What's that?" she asks with a perfectly drawn up eyebrow raised at me. "Speak," she commands when I stay silent.

"Why do you hate me?" My eyes remains locked to the floor tiles and my voice is nothing but a whisper as I finally ask the question that has circled in the back of my mind for so long.

"Are you sure you wanna know?" I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat, before I nod. "Careful what you wish for Four-Eyes," she tells me as she reaches for her book bag. It takes her less than ten seconds to find a black marker in front pocket of her bag. With the marker in hand she turns back to me. Her eyes scan my body from top to toe and back again. In one swift motion, like a snake attacking its prey, she's over me: pushing me up against the wall behind me and yanking at the rim of my shirt. She pulls the cap of the marker off with her teeth before she starts to draw lines on the exposed skin of my stomach.

The tip of the marker feels icy cold against my skin, as it slides freely across my stomach, harassing me physically and mentally. With every inch it touches it leaves behind what feel more like burn marks than marker lines. I have the overwhelming urge to dig my fingernails into the skin the marker has claimed; to follow its path along my body and inflict as much pain as I can along its trail. I know, without her uttering a word that the treasure map she's drawing on me maps out every part of me that, according to her, is wrong with me.

I struggle under her grip, but she's too strong. My body has already started its process of shutting down, too overwhelmed by fear to continue to function properly, and it has weakened my strength.

"Almost done," she tells me through her teeth's grip on the marker cap. Her voice sounds almost soothing, but it does nothing to calm me.

"Let me go," I beg her, as I do my best to keep the water in my eyes from spilling over. Never let them see you cry, I remind myself. It's the promise I made to myself in fifth grade, after Bob Eisenhag stood me up. I know what you're thinking but I was 11 and he had the whole hot stud nerd look going for him.

"Hush. Wouldn't want anyone to hear us." 

"Please," I beg her, but there's no strength behind my plea; it sounds weak and frail like the strength in my upper arms and my mental state. It's as if all of my strength has been sucked out of my soul. As if Samantha has turned into a dementor and sucked every piece of life out of me.

"Quiet," she orders me. "There, all done," she says as she takes a step back to admire her work. With a plop of her lips she attaches the cap back on the marker and slips it into her back pocket. She allows herself another minute to study the ink on my skin. My tshirt is pulled up to under my bra and seems to be stuck there despite the force of gravity and I'm too paralyzed to reach up and tuck it down to conceal the marks she's made. Then she reaches out to grab her book bag and swings it back onto one shoulder. With one hand she pats the top of my hair before she makes her way towards the door. 

I don't allow myself to break until the door shuts closed behind her and I'm positive I'm all alone in the bathroom. 

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting up against it, with my knees tucked under my chin and my arms wrapped tightly around them, as if I'll fall apart if they aren't holding my body together. I don't care that my shirt is still only covering my stomach halfway or that I'm getting tear stained on my jeans or even the fact that anyone could walk in any second. I'm too wrapped up in the pain that throbs in my heart and spreads through my veins to every piece of my body. 

As my body convulses with cries my own hatred for myself grows until it's all I can see. If only I was twenty pounds lighter she wouldn't hate me. If only I could fit into a size XS she would love me. If only I wasn't so fat I would be perfect.

//AN: thank you so much for reading and for all your amazing comments!//