Beautiful Scars

beautiful scars chapter 1

I've been stuck in here since I was eight. They always do tests on me hoping to get satisfactory results. I'm 16 now. I've only ever left my cage five times in the eight years I've been stuck in this wannabe clinic. They take girls, young ones, persuading the parents to hand in their most prized possession - their children - making them believe that they will help the girls.
I've only ever gotten worse. I'm surprised I haven't died yet. I'm the skinniest most anorexic one here. Out of three hundred girls.
I was diagnosed with depression when I was seven. I started starving myself, because a voice in my head told me to. My parents didn't believe me, even though the proof was in the pudding. They took me to psychologists and all of them led me to one place... The Mental Health Asylum.

They take anorexic girls in hoping to make them better, as if they aren't already good enough. They force us to eat and if we don't, we get tortured. I refuse to leave my cage. They call it a room but you can hardly fit more than five people in here at once.
When I was locked up here at the age of eight I started cutting myself, like any other depressed person. They thought I had some sort of mental disorder, but when they ran the tests nothing was valid. Turns out it was just the same old depression I've always had. In that one year I had lost seven pounds, I wasn't bad back then. Now I have more then fifty scars on my body, mainly caused from my razor, but sometimes if I feel brave I use my nails. When I turned thirteen I started burning myself and cutting my hair. I now have more burnt patches on my body than non-burnt patches. My hair is also uneven. I weigh less then forty five pounds. I have no boobs, butt or fat. My ribs stick out and my spine shines through. My cheek bones are more obvious than that of Angelina Jolie. I don't exercise, but my abs still show. My waist is so small, not even a size zero fits me and my legs will most likely be thinner then your arms.

I am Chloe and I am sick.

"It's time for lunch everyone!" The manager shouts, the cells open and we are allowed to leave just for an hour. It's like a prison. We get served food on trays, we eat it and then we go outside and do whatever we want. Well not whatever we want, but there is a basketball court that comes with a half flat ball, plus soccer nets that include a rundown ball as well. There are benches to sit at and books to read. Technology is not allowed. The only time we are allowed to contact someone from the real world is every night to say goodnight to our family members. The conversations are only allowed to be seven minutes long after that the line gets immediately cut out.
I refuse to go outside, my appetite no longer exists. They know this, so they always bring a tray of food and water to me instead; they know I liked getting tortured so they don't do it to me anymore. Even though I don't eat.

As my cell opened I could hear the footsteps of innocent girls walking. I could hear the whispers, I could hear the laughing. My focus went on one conversation in particular.

"Don't look at her!" One of the girls shouted in a whispered voice, I could tell she was fairly young by her squeaky voice. Maybe eleven or twelve.

"Why not? She's different. Apparently she never leaves her room, because she refuses to. And I've also heard they've done multiple tests on her, 'cause they reckon she's like psycho or something." The other girl whispered back, she seemed fourteen.

"She's scary, you'll get nightmares if you look at her." The twelve year old replied. After that the conversation faded away.

I heard people say things like that about me all the time. None of them had seen my face before, every time people were allowed to leave I faced my back to them so they wouldn't have to experience my horrifying features. When all the girls were gone a woman came, it was always the same lady. She tried to talk to me, but I never spoke back. All I knew about her was that her name was Angelina.
I knew what they were doing. They were trying to trick me. She wasn't just a lady who brought me food, she was a dumb shrink who thought she could fix all my problems. She couldn't.

"Chloe talk to me please" she begged, as if that would make me feel more guilty then I already felt.
I didn't speak I just stared at her with open eyes. I loved to do that, even when I was little. Stare at people and examine the way they moved and how they spoke. She moved as if she were a flower. Her every movement did not seem like movement, but rather blossoming - like a flower - I never spoke to Angelina and I wasn't planning on doing so, but a voice in my head told me I could trust her.

The voice who spoke to me always gave me good advice and she was always right. Always.

She reminds me to not eat, she tells me that I don't deserve to be alive. She tells me I look like the grudge and that I was put on this earth to scare children away. She tells me who I can trust and who I cannot. She reminds me who's better then me and how they will always be. She says she won't leave, because I need her. Otherwise I would be blind, blind to the reality life really is. But most importantly she reminds me that if she doesn't make me unhappy then someone else will.
I call her Coco.
She's my best friend. She's the one who's always been there for me. Unlike my parents who put me here, because they thought I was messed up. They were never proud of me, they aren't proud of me.

"Chloe tell me what's going on in your head" she begged again.

"Nothing" I whispered, "I think about nothing, because there's nothing to think about." I ended. Angelina just stared at me, I refused to look back.

"Chloe, you are beautiful. You have lovely long black hair and big brown eyes. Not to mention your extended eye lashes. If you ate more often, your figure would also be stunning. If you took care of
yourself, you would be one of the most gorgeous girls anybody could possibly ever lay their eyes on." There it was, Angelina was blossoming again.

"It's supposed to be their job to take care of me" I looked up in agony. My pain shot through her like a rocket taking for lift off.

"The quicker you start looking after yourself, the faster you'll get out of here and the happier you will be. Stop relying on them, it's been eight years." She said in a more serious tone, then she got up and left. Left like everyone else.

And then one by one the tears started to fall and I picked up the razor.