I snuggle under my duvet covers, trying to ignore my mother shouting up the stairs at me. It’s the weekend and I’m not working today so there is no need for me to be awake at 8 am.
“ABI GET UP! WE’RE GOING OUT…” I make some sort of incomprehensible noise from under my duvet. My mum barges into my bedroom without warning.
“Abi. Up now.”
“whhhhhyyyyy.” I groan.
“we’re going out to the waterpark with your stepsisters and John.” ugh, what fun, not.
“okay, okay, I’m getting up.” My mum leaves me bedroom and I sigh deeply. I do not want to go out with my stepdad john and my 2 stepsisters. In a groggy state I walk over to my dresser and pull out a random bikini. I shove it on and examine the damage.
I haven’t got a bad figure, I’ve never really worried about my weight, I’m probably the only girl who doesn’t worry about my weight to be honest. No what I’m worried about is the amass of scars and cuts scattered all over my hips and thighs.
Arms are the first place anyone checks if they suspect you of cutting. If they check my arms all they will see is smooth skin with the odd scar. Nothing suspicious.
They don’t check your hips or thighs.
I cringe as I look in the mirror, I pick up my make-up bag and search for a waterproof concealer. I sigh once again as I realise I have none. I grab a normal concealer instead and spread it over the cuts. I blend it into my skin as best as I can but just one look in the mirror confirms what I was thinking all along. The smaller cuts are covered, but the deeper, larger cuts? Visible as anything. I pull of the bikini and shove on some high waisted shorts and a crop top. I shove my hair in a messy bun, why should I bother to do anything with it? I trudge downstairs and meet my mum in the kitchen. She’s sat at the breakfast bar drinking tea and texting.
“hey mum, er I can’t go to the waterpark?” she doesn’t look up from her phone.
“oh why not?”
“time of the month” I say quickly.
“oh okay. I wasn’t going into the park anyway, you can sit in the café with me.”
“okay” I say but cringe internally. Damn I still have to go out. I go back upstairs and finish getting ready.
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We walk into the park, my own brother and sister as well as my 2 step sisters and step dad go off to get changed whilst me and mum go in hunt for the café. My stepsisters did the whole “aw poor you” sympathetic routine, but it was blatantly obvious that they didn’t really care. Maybe they did a bit, but not much. After all, who would care about me? I’ve never really gotten close to them.
They’ve always been quite preppy and superficial. Even as a young child I was never like that. I’ve always preferred to have a small group of trust worthy friends and taught to be happy with what I have. I guess that’s always made me a like able person. It’s just so much effort to keep up the perfect happy image though, I can smile and pretend that I’m fine and that I’m happy. That my life is great, that my social life is great, my grades are great. My whole life is great.
But it’s not.
Most days I don’t even want to get out of bed. That probably makes me sound self-centred and selfish.
It’s okay, most people probably secretly hate me anyway.
Me and mum sit down in the small café that overlooks the park. I sip at the diet coke she bought me, I ignore the chocolate muffin she also handed me. I don’t feel like eating. I pull a book out of my bag, I always have one with me. This time it’s “it’s kind of a funny story” by Ned Vizzini. I sit and lose myself in the book. There’s not much else to do.
Hours pass and before I know it were leaving the waterpark. Everyone beaming real smiles, happy to be having such a fun day. My smile is equally as big, maybe even bigger but quite definitely the only fake smile out of everyone’s. I just want to back to bed. I smile and agree with their plans to go to a pizza place for lunch but secretly resenting it all.
I watch everyone as they tuck into pizza, I pick at my own, I don’t really have an appetite. They all seem so genuinely happy, like their capable of feeling real emotions. I bet they wouldn’t even miss me if I was gone. I could vanish into thin air and they wouldn’t even notice. My step sisters laugh as my little brother does a stupid fake Italian accent and critiques his food. Real genuine laughs, I smile a half hearted laugh. Why should I even bother? I adjust my shorts, the denim rubs against the cuts on my hips. I feel a slight twinge of pain.
That night as I lie in bed unable to sleep once again, I realise something. Surely I should feel sad that the best part of the whole day for me was when I was able to come home and retreat back to my bedroom and my bed and avoid the world. But I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel anything. I just feel numb.
