I open my eyes wide, it hurting keeping them open, I haven't slept in ages. But I have to face my demons. That's what mother always said; in order to move on, you have to face your fears.
The reflection of the person in the mirror spooks me, it's disgusting. It's unattractive. Pale and dirty, huge dark bags under it's eyes, scars all over it's face, build up oil and makeup left there to slowly rot against it's skin. It's hair was unwashed, it's scalp finally founding time to breathe as it's natural hair color started growing back in. It hadn't been to the salon in a while, too long probably. It's cheeks were sucked in, like when a smoker inhales a big cloud of their deadly oxygen. It's body was weak, wrists as thick as the sticks you'd step on in an autumn morning on your way to work. It's stomach nowhere to be found, only the bones of it's ribcage stood out, ready to pierce through the bruised skin. It's legs barely holding it's little weight, shaking and wobbling like boiling pasta in a pot.
This is me.
The reflection of the person in the mirror, that's me. I'm spooked by my own disgusting self.
I've always been the pretty kid, the hot girl, whatever you'd like to call it. I'm all of it. How? I don't get it. I never did. What did other people see in me? How am I the most beautiful? Am I blind? I can't see it.
It's them.
I'm sickening, a living example of the pathetic person your family would tell you you won't ever be if you stayed in school.
I'm scary, the monster under the kids' bed, feeding myself on teir happiness. I can't seem to find some myself.
It doesn't work. I can't digest their happiness. It all comes back out, spilling from my chapped lips and onto the floor.
Red liquid.
Why does it look so much like blood?
My fingers dance around my skin, nails grazing the flesh around my eyes and down my face to my neck.
Why does it smell so much like blood?
One scratch, long and deep over the hideous bags of distress staining my face. It feels so nice and stings, reminds me I'm alive.
Why does it taste so much like blood?
Another scratch. The liquid dropping to my lips, thick and dark. I've tasted it before.
Why can't I stop myself?
It tastes of freedom with a tad bit of happiness.
I don't want to stop myself.
But, I guess, I'm not entirely sure what those feelings mean? Do they mean anything? Do they even exist?
I won't stop myself.
I've forgotten. I can't exactly recall the last time I didn't despise every little detail about my repellent self.
Why am I scared?
Maybe, the first time I posed in front of the camera. I wouldn't really know if that was real happiness, though, I was nine.
I don't want to be scared anymore.
Another scratch, blood tightly holding onto my skin as if afraid to stain my shirt. Even the blood knows how strict my mother is.
I have to face my demons.
It's nice, the pain. At least I can still feel something. It brings me back to reality, forces me to face the world of blacks and rarely whites. The world of bads and rarely goods.
I'm my demon.
It stops me from being free, the pain I feel in my body after I've scratched too deep. It reminds me I'm stuck, chained to the many things I want to run away from.
I need to end the fear.
Maybe, pain isn't as good as I thought it was. It's makes me want to die, yet does everything to keep me alive.
I need to end me.
I haven't seen this much blood before. It's all over the mirror.
I have to end me.
I drew a heart. Isn't that what the girls do with their lipsticks, draw and write silly things on the mirror for others to see?
End my demons.
I did it with my own blood.
End my fear.
It looks pretty against the glass, even hides a part of my revolting image.
End myself.
Everything is spinning. Everything is blurry. The smell and taste of blood fainting as I walk close to the darkness.
“Are you alright?” the door bursts open. It's Momo. Her perfume is stronger than the smell of precious blood.
“Yes.” I fell on my knees.
No.
“Mina!”
Momo isn't blocking my way to the darkness anymore. This is it.
“Are you alright?” No, I'm not “Talk to me!”
I'm walking closer.
“You'll be alright.”
No, I won't.
“Mina!”
Darkness.
“Come on!”
It feels nice.
-kimwig
