Misconceptions 》Styles

23.00

      It seemed like such a fair trade. All I had to do was read a few stupid fucking letters and he would leave me alone. It's so simple. I can do it, I know I can. The only problem was the letters themselves. They are here, in my grasp, in this envelope. All of the words Harry has written, the words he swears have the power to change everything. The last time I read them, I broke. Right in front of him. I couldn't let that happen again. I wouldn't let it happen again.

       "Do you think that before you read them...you could go to your session?" Harry says quietly, looking down at me hopefully with his stupid big green eyes and his stupid pink lips set in a frown.

       "Why?" 

       "Because they're supposed to help. And I care, and-"

       "And you want me to get better, whatever." I roll my eyes and tuck the envelope into my chest. I stare up at Harry for a few seconds, my mouth set in a hard line.

       It is so easy to become strangers, it doesn't even happen gradually. When it happens, you know. Everything just changes from one second to the next and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.

      Not when you've been torn down time and time again by the person who you trust most in this world.

       Not when you have diseases clawing at your brain, telling you how stupid, weird, freaky, disgusting, horrible, ugly, ugly, ugly you were.

         Not when you want to die. Not when you go to sleep hoping you won't wake up. Not when the slightest touch bruises you because you haven't had a solid meal in weeks. 

         Not then. Not ever. Looking at him here, it hurts me and the memories are coming back and I really wish they wouldn't because it is so much easier to forget. It is so much easier to forget the possibility that the boy I loved

hate

love

hated

ruined my life

       is still buried in there. That maybe there is justification for everything he put me through. Did I want there to be? Of course I did. But I knew there wasn't. And even if there was, it would explain his behavior, but it sure as hell wouldn't excuse it. 

           I remember when we had that stupid fucking camping trip in grade eight and my mum didn't listen to me, again. All I asked of her was to pack me some water, and those dumb KIND bars she had shipped in from America because they were supposed to suppress your appetite and make you slimmer and all they had were nuts and cranberry chunks and they looked healthy. I could eat them. Back then, I could eat them. Back then, I still had control. Back then, food was food. It wasn't just calories. Back then it was watching my weight, not obsessing over it. Not wanting to kill myself because I couldn't be pretty and thin and perfect. But no.

        She put in chocolate bars and marshmallows and gram crackers because she thought  I would want smores. She put in pizza bagels and crackers with cream cheese packets and had packed me bottles of chocolate milk and even a prawn sandwich. God, if she wanted me to be good enough, if she wanted me to be a model, why would she do that? Didn't she know that food was the enemy? Didn't she know that I was a fat?

          And I, being incredibly idiotic, I saw all of the food and it was so much for me and I was alone in my tent and no one could stop me and now that I thought about it, I was kind of hungry and hey, all I had was some tuna steak earlier and hey, I could work it off and hey, calories and carbs and fat had yet to consume every single one of my thoughts.