Ugly Little Fishy

I’m standing in front of this mirror again. I look up and see my hollow eyes staring right back into mine. I see the long lines that have formed under my eyes, seemingly highlighted by the dark rings which circle them. I see the slightly overgrown eyebrows which cause havoc in thick black on the bridge of my face. And when I look closely I see the slowly forming frown lines on my forehead. My eyes roam further down, looking for some sort of saving grace only to find my nose which sits disproportionately on the front of my face masking the scars that tear through my lips.

I feel it then, the slowly rising burn of bile as my stomach clenches in pain. That sweetly sour taste in my mouth as I dry heave into the toilet bowl.

I collapse onto the cold tiles, my feet no longer managing to hold me up…

I don’t know how long I stay there but finally I find the strength to pull myself up, relying heavily on the towel rail for support. I make it to my feet and return to the mirror.

This time my eyes catch the bruise; that dark blue blotch on my hip surrounded by a sickly, yellow tinge. I think back to how I hit myself, moulding myself into the better me; the ‘me’ that I could be if I wasn’t so ugly. I remember the blood and the pain as my eyes linger on the now healing cuts just where my right leg meets my torso. It had to be there so that no one would see it. Not that anyone looks at my hideous body.

My growling stomach is the only thing indicating that I have been on a starvation diet for five days now. I haven’t even had the decency to lose the fat which has stretched and distorted my skin to the point of scaring. I am just as hideous as I was yesterday, and the day before. And the diet pills I stole from mom’s cabinet aren’t helping much either.

I dry heave again. The acid lining my oesophagus burns through the various layers of flesh that surround it. There’s blood in my mouth. I’m not sure where it came from but I can taste the iron thickly on my tongue. I spit it out only to find that it has been replaced. Something is bleeding but I couldn’t be bothered to find out what. My blood is the first thing I have tasted since I last vomited and it tastes better than the bitter bile of my stomach.

I sit down. My naked skin burning as it touches the cold white floor. I see myself in the mirror once more and wonder why I could never be beautiful.

If only I was as beautiful as she. If only my legs were as long or my waist was as small. If only my eyes could light up the night. If only you would choose to take me home tonight…

I must have passed out then. I woke up on the icy, white tiles, my blood spattered against the wall, dripping down to the floor. I look down at my hands which clutch desperately to a picture. It’s a picture of you. You will be the last face I see.

The pitch black of my nightmares surround me and your face loses focus. It’s fading quickly now.

Mom found me two days later, when she came back from her latest Paris trip. Dad hadn’t even noticed I was missing. The paramedic pronounced me dead on my bathroom floor still clutching desperately to your photo. Broken, but you couldn’t care.