She gets around. That's what they say about me.
The slut word never crosses their lips. Sometimes it's the whore word, and that's just as well.
It's strange, to hear that about me. I'm not one of the pretty girls, the ones almost entitled to being whores because, let's face it, everyone wants to date them and for them to be single would be almost criminal. I'm not one of them. Not by a long shot.
Yet I 'get around'. One year, seven boys. Is that a bit much? I guess if they say it is, it is. Seven's just a number to me. Seven pairs of hands that held my heart and dropped it. Seven pairs of eyes that for a time could not be taken off of me. Seven pairs of lips that came into sinful contact with mine, among other things. Seven minds that adored then forgot me. Seven pairs of feet that walked away. Seven. It's just a number.
Why so many? You wonder. Or, at least, I assume you wonder.
I broke my own heart once, I broke it and I left it in pieces and never picked it up again. I hated myself and punished myself with starvation and over-exertion and that is what broke me. And somehow I got it in my head that I couldn't be the one to fix it, that it had to, had to be a boy. Must have been that "a prince will always come save you" idea that was programmed into my brain, as it is into every little girl's brain. I was waiting for a prince to come save me. Perhaps I still am.
I took my chances with the first 'prince' I found. I guess you could say I was desperate, desperate for someone to pick up the pieces.
We were fourteen. We shared a doughnut once, and for me, it was the last. We giggled as we ate, but after:
"Claire, you better go take a jog around the park to burn those calories"
It was as if the voice of the anorexia that had been trapped in my head had escaped, and been given life through this stupid, stupid boy.
He meant it as a joke.
He knew about the anorexia.
I never ate a doughnut again.
After him was five more, each who seemed to compete with each other for the most agonizing way of breaking my heart. Of building up my confidence with sticks instead of bricks and picking just the right moment to be the big bad wolf and knock it down.
That Claire, she's such a whore.
Would they believe me if I told them I only wanted to feel beautiful?
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How to Love Claire Mason
Fiksi RemajaThe walls were red. His room was dark. Her heart was pounding. His voice was soft. But she said stop. She was recovered. She was healthy. She was desired. Just like she wanted. Until she broke.
