The Anomaly Affliction

Six

Trigger warning: self harm, depression

They say in Nacoma that your sixteenth birthday is the best one of your life. Well, from my experience, they're wrong.

My sixteenth birthday ends up being the worst one yet. As soon as I walk through the door I'm hit by a wave of guilt. When I see Mum's face, it almost becomes a tsunami.

I enter the kitchen, where Mum is cooking, and see her with that seemingly tattooed smile on her face...but what horrifies me more is that there is dried blood below her nostrils. I flinch at the sight of it. Unlike earlier today, when I punched her and felt that maniacal satisfaction, I now hate the sight of her injured face. That blood has been there for at least an hour now. And I know that I caused that. I made her bleed.

"Why don't you go upstairs for a bit?" Mum smiles at me. "We'll call you down when we're ready with the gifts."

Right, gifts. Because I really deserve gifts after everything I've done.

"Um," I say. "You've got a little..." I point at my face between my nostrils and my lips.

Mum dabs her finger on the dried blood on her face.

"You mean the blood?" she questions.

I expect her to continue with what my brain wants her to say: "The blood that you put there? I wouldn't have this on my face if not for you, you monster."

But she can't say that. She's too happy. Instead, she says: "It doesn't matter. It's only blood, we've all got it."

Of course. She can't feel disgust, so she doesn't feel inclined to clean it up. But can I really bear to see it on her face for the whole evening? I don't think so.

"Could you clean it up, please?" I ask awkwardly.

"Of course, Violet," she replies, her smile broadening. "Anything for the birthday girl."

STOP CALLING ME THE FUCKING BIRTHDAY GIRL.

I head upstairs and go into the bathroom. I go in there to use the toilet, but as I stand over the sink, washing my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror and pick out all the little insecurities I have about my face.

My nose is too big.

My complexion is bad.

My mouth is too far down.

My smile is lopsided. And rare.

I need to avoid looking in the mirror when I feel like this. My brain has a habit of taking little things and escalating them until they're unbearable. "Violet, you silly girl," it's telling me, "No one cares about you. I mean, just look at you. You're ugly. You're worthless. What did Lake ever see in you? You should be the one with the bloody nose. You deserve to be punched. No, you deserve worse. You should've died last month. You should've died last month. You should've died last month."

I look down and notice that I've picked up my pair of nail scissors from the bathroom counter. The first thing I ever used to self harm.

"Do it," my brain is telling me. "Do it."

I haven't done it for a few nights now. This week has been fairly okay...until today. It's funny how the day that I feel worst is my birthday. What a great birthday it's been.

"Do it. Do it. Do it."

Should I...?

I roll up my sleeve and bring the scissors towards my forearm. I still see the remnants of scars there.

"Do it. Do it."

The cold metal touches my skin, sending a shiver up my arm.

"Do it. Do it."

"Violet!" Mum calls from downstairs.

I feel somewhat relieved but also disappointed when I hear her voice. I take the scissors away from my arm.

"Yeah?" I shout back.

"You can come down now," she responds.

"Okay, coming."

I look down at the scissors in my hand, then at my exposed wrist, then back at the scissors. I need to go downstairs...but...

"It's time for presents!" Dad sings from downstairs.

I can't. I put the scissors down, roll my sleeve back down, and head downstairs.

The rest of the evening is very contradictory. Over dinner I open presents. My parents then present me with a birthday cake and sing. It's all very celebratory and cheerful, but there's a dark undertone. I haven't felt this low for a while. Underneath all the happiness of my birthday celebration, my mind makes me feel like shit. It lasts all evening.

At 22:57pm, my parents say that it's time for me to go to bed.

"Goodnight, birthday girl," Dad says, planting a quick kiss on my forehead like he does every night. "Get plenty of sleep. You need to be awake for your vaccines tomorrow."

Fuck the vaccines, I think.

"Goodnight," Mum smiles. "Have sweet dreams of your vaccines."

Fuck the vaccines.

I bluntly say "goodnight" to them and head into my room for the night. In the dark, I lie awake with thoughts rushing through my mind like a river. Thoughts of the vaccines. Thoughts of how much I hate myself and my existence. Thoughts of last month. Thoughts of punching Mum. Thoughts of Lake and how much I don't deserve her. Bad thoughts.

When the thoughts get too bad, I squeeze my eyes shut and turn over, trying to block everything out. But you can't block out what's in your head - I should know that by now. I want to cry. I want to yell. I want to scream. But instead I stay silent, wishing that sleep would take me.

Eventually I manage to think of Lake without thinking of how undeserving I am. I think of her face. Her hair. Her eyes. Her smile. Her laugh. Her touch. Her lips. Her sense of humour. Her intelligence. Her ambition. Her kindness. Thinking of these things manages to calm me down, until my bad thoughts are quieter.

I imagine Lake curled up beside me, with her arm around my waist and her lips at my ear. I imagine that she is here with me, that she will always be here with me. I imagine living with her and growing old with her. I imagine a future with her. It's funny how I constantly alternate between not wanting a future at all, and wanting an eternity with Lake.

When I feel calmer, I turn over again and settle down. I'm no longer thinking of how I punched Mum, or how I should've died last month. I'm just thinking of Lake, with occasional bad thoughts.

Now all I can do is wait for sleep to arrive. The sooner I sleep, the sooner I'll get the inevitable vaccines over with.