Sinking Through the Cracks

Going Back to Old Habits

When I wake up, Anthony is asleep next to me, back in my bed.  I snuggle against his chest, my eyes closed, and I breathe in his smell.  It's a mix of cologne and something that smells like aftershave or something, but the smell in total is soothing and I fall back asleep.  Later in the morning, I wake up and Anthony is gone.  I feel sad when I feel the empty bed because I feel safe around him, protected, secure.  This sadness dissipates when I see the sticky note stuck to a picture frame that holds an image of Nagini.  I crawl under the sheets and grab the note, pulling in close to my eyes so that I can read it in my glasses-less state.  It reads,

Sorry I had to leave, but I'll be back. I'm just going home to shower, get some clean clothes on and packed, and then I'll be back so that we can spend the weekend together.  If you need me, I put my number in to your phone.

-Anthony

The note makes me smile and I decide to do some of the same.  I hop in the shower, washing my hair in a pink shampoo and conditioner that smells strongly of flowers.  I use a soap that has a light lingering cinnamon smell and the combination of the two is fragrant and soothing in the bathroom.  I get out, dry myself down, and go back in my room.  I pull on black fuzzy leggings and a large tee shirt that goes an inch past my butt.  It's a loose adventure time one and I love it.  I blow dry my hair, causing it to transform from it's wavy self to a straight, shiny personality.  I brush it gently and stare at myself in the mirror.  I hate my face.  If I could change parts of it, maybe it would look better.  If I could replace my fat button nose for one of those skinny, fairy ones, maybe it would look better.  If I could shorten my forehead so that it's a little less huge, if I could shorten my huge front teeth, if I could replace my horrible, dry, hair for something better maybe... But I can't.  I'm stuck with my ugly combination of features.  When I'm done cursing out my face, I move on to my body.  I pinch the inside of my thighs that don't touch, but only by the smallest centimeter.  I grab at my huge thighs, stomach, and the lumps of fat on each of my hips.  I pull at the flesh on my arms, despising it.  It's times like these that made me start cutting.  I would allow my thoughts to overtake me and when I couldn't stand the voices of other people in my head calling fat and ugly and everything, I would cut.  Even thinking about cutting now makes me desire the pain.  It clears my thoughts, help me think, and stops the other voices in my head, the ones that don't belong.  I begin to go through my check list, long sleeves, check.  Pants that can cover my hips, check.  I go through the rest of my list and can't find a way that anyone would find out, so I run to the bathroom.  Cutting for me is like eating a treat for someone else.  I get excited, and when it begins, it's peaceful, then I just want to go faster and faster until  can't stand it anymore.  I do one more slice, or one more bite, and then I make myself stop.  I stand in the bathroom, pale in the mirror, and I roll up both of my dark grey sleeves.  I pull on the handle of a small drawer and it reveals a few make up pads, lotion, and other mismashed items.  I reach my arm in to the drawer and after a few seconds, it hits the back.  I search for a flap and I find it.  I reach in to the flap and my hand finds the cool metal of the razors.  I carefully select one and retrieve it from the depths of the drawer.  I bring in in to view and press it to the skin on my wrist in a straight line.  I pull it away from the skin to reveal crimson liquid dripping from my pale skin.  The pain sends a shiver down my spine and a light smile to my face.  The voices in my head fade slightly, but I can still hear then.  I hold my arm over the sink and press and drag the razor over my skin, over and over again.  Eventually I switch arms and I stand in the bathroom, both of the tender sections of skin on the bottom of my arms dripping scarlet blood in to the sink.  I put down the razor and rinse he wound with water.  I find a bit of thin gauze in the cabinet and I apply a layer around both arms.  I pull down both sleeves, hoping that if the gauze doesn't absorb the blood, that the blood might not show up on the dark fabric.  I tidy the space, making sure that there isn't any more blood, check the cut on my lip which hasn't fully headed yet, and I go back in my room just in time.  When I enter my room, I hear a wrist rap on glass and I turn to see Anthony perched on that same branch.  I rush to the window and open it, allowing him to emerge back in to the room which must now be so familiar to him. 

"You look a bit better," he says, setting down his black duffel bag next to my dresser.  What he doesn't know is that I put on a bit of foundation and mascara, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.