Tuesday, 6 August 2013

All I need is a bitter song...To make me better. Much better.


This comes with a trigger warning. Please be safe.


Sometimes all you need is a bitter song. To make you better. Much better.

I am dark and twisty. Scary and damaged.
Other Grey's Anatomy references.
TITLE LYRICS: 'A Bitter Song' by Butterfly Boucher

She stands in front of the mirror, staring into her cold, lifeless eyes. Her gaze traces over every imperfection, every small flaw that makes up part of the entire, worthless whole.

Bad skin.

Yellow teeth.

Dull hair.

Plain features.

Lips that are too full for such a pinched, ugly face.

Her eyes trail down, critically noting the imperfections as they continue down her body.

Fat arms.

Fat face.

Grotesquely large bust that is spilling over her dress and bulging under the strain of her now too-small bra straps.

Fat stomach, fat thighs, fat fat fat.

She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood as she lifts her dress to expose her flawed form to the critic in the mirror. With real spite she pinches the putrid roll of flab hanging over her underpants, and imagines what it would feel like to simply be able to suck the fat right off her bones. She pictures the procedure, squeezing the offending flesh between her fingers.

Cut here.

Insert suction.


Bleed out on the bathroom floor because that's what you deserve you useless piece of shit -

She stops herself, dropping the hem of her dress and allowing her hand to hang limply by her side. The eyes in the mirror flicker, leaving her face for a fraction of a second and falling on the bottom draw of the vanity.

Open it.

The eyes bore into her, urging her, forcing her.

Open the goddam drawer.

Slowly, fluidly, her hand drifts towards the handle.

Open it.

She watches as her fingers curl around the cool polished metal with a sense of removal, as though it is not her hand at all. It belongs to the girl in the mirror.

Her fingers find their destination without any conscious thought or direction from her, which is just as well, really. It's always better to let the girl in the mirror handle this part.

She watches as three thick ribbons of blood appear in the crook of her elbow, like three fluid bracelets worn too high. The girl in the mirror bares her teeth, though she's pretty sure it's meant to be a smile. More and more fluid ribbons slip onto her forearm, each one more ragged than the last. A small puddle begins to form at her feet, staining her bare toes. She risks a glance at the mirror, unsure if she should retake control of her rogue hand and force it to stop. The girl in the mirror gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head, as if to let her know that she was in complete control of the situation.

The edges of the bracelets start to blur together.

Finally her hand grows limp, allowing the razor to slip effortlessly from her fingers. It hits the ground with a tiny splash that seems to echo through the room. She raises the arm to her face, inspecting the carnage and assessing the damage. It looks bad, but she knows it's okay because the arm doesn't belong to her anyway. Her arm is whole and undamaged; this torn, bloody mess belongs to the girl staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes.

Her heart skips a beat before settling into a ragged, unsteady rhythm.

The eyes staring back at her are her own. The girl in the mirror is gone, leaving her to clean up the mess she was only too happy to create.


Her breaths come out in short, shallow bursts as the panic begins to make its presence known. The white tiles on the wall start to swim before her eyes, and she desperately looks into the mirror for guidance, for some clue as to what to do now.

Her own terrified eyes peer back at her.

She hears footsteps approaching and her mind kicks into gear, pushing aside both her and the girl in the mirror to make room for the clean-up crew. They work quickly and efficiently, simultaneously cleaning the floor and the bloody mess on her forearm. She watches them with a sense of relief, breathing easier with every passing minute. The clean-up crew always know what to do. There is a soft knock on the door and she freezes, staring at the door handle with wide eyes. The clean-up crew don't miss a beat.

"Hey," he says softly from the other side. "Are you okay in there?"

We're fine, the clean-up crew hiss, glaring at her. Tell him we are fine.

"I'm fine," she chokes out, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'll be out in a minute."

He hesitates by the door for the length of ten heartbeats before she hears his footsteps retreating. She looks down just in time to see the clean-up crew out the final touches on the bandage on her arm.

Put a jumper on, they say, rolling their eyes. And for godsake stop sniveling. What's done is done. Don't make it worse by being such a baby.

She obediently pulls a jumper over her head, wincing slightly as the fabric brushes her arm.

Suck it up, the girl in the mirror mutters. She’s back. She always comes back. You know you only have yourself to blame.

She nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.

She only has herself to blame.