Nobody Knows

Nobody Knows

It’s a warm, sticky summer’s night. I sit on the bed for hours, staring into the mirror. Ugly. Fat. Disgusting. Skeletal. A pug I think. No wonder nobody wants me. This is a frequent occurrence. I suppose I’m just feeling low. Alone. More so than usual. No answer at the other end of the phone. I take a pencil sharpener from the draw in my bedside table and desperately bite, claw and cut away at the plastic encasement of the blade inside. Fuck. Biting, clawing, cutting. Fuck. I take it, my hands shaking, and slowly begin to do the only thing in the world which lets me feel okay. Not okay. Who knows. I don’t. Never did. Still don’t. Go cut yourself, he had sneered. Snarling idiot. Why don’t you help instead of behaving like this? Why am I so ugly? My mother is beautiful. My father not wholly unattractive, though I have only ever seen photos. Perhaps his face was not intended for a girl-child. It begins with a slow and steady tear across the meat and ends in a frenzy of slicing in all directions. Just ask the butcher – he knows how it’s done. No disinfectant. No germaline. A criss-cross of scarlet cuts and dripping red. Red. Because this is the only way. Red. Don’t you see? I see red. The only way to feel maybe… To feel what? Something. Hurting. Healing. Punished. Okay. There is so much blood that I’ll have to bandage my arm – I don’t want to stain the clean linen bed sheets. Deep, go deeper. It doesn’t hurt enough. I can’t stop. I wish this blade was sharper. Too young to buy a penknife. Tonight, I can’t stop. Tonight, I am crying myself dry and empty. Tonight, I have carved ‘FAILIURE’ into my fat white shoulder. Tonight, as with every other, I feel a strong and bitter sense of self pitty and regret. Why does nobody know I am here, in this room, hurting myself? Why does nobody knock the door and tell me to stop? God I hope no one knocks. Phone a helpline – it’s easy. As if. Don’t waste our time, they would say. Fat. Ugly. Pig. How are you able to walk on your hind legs little piglet? Fuck it. Cut it.
And nobody knows.

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