She sits in front of her laptop, staring at the screen. Waiting for the words to arrive. Waiting for her fingers to move. Waiting.
The air seems heavy. Vicious. She takes a breath in.
And holds it.
Do I really have to breathe?
She releases it.
She stares at her bookshelves, overwhelmed by the weight of her dreams. One day, she wants to be there. One day, she wants to have written words so good that people want to own them. Keep them. Take them to bed and read them under the cover of darkness. Flashlights and pillow forts. Like it’s supposed to be.
But not today.
Today all she wants is to keep her heart beating.
Not even that.
She really doesn’t give a fuck if it beats or not.
It would be quite okay if it decided to quit.
Just as long as she wasn’t to blame.
There’s nothing worse than being to blame.
Her eyes wander down to her wrists. To the veins growing more prominent every day. Are they taunting her? Tempting her? Teasing her?
How many more times must she endure it?
There’s a scar alongside one of them. Silvery and delicate. Offset.
She was fatter then.
The thought sickens her.
She thinks back on everything she’s eaten today.
It’s too much.
It’s always fucking too much.
Why do you even need to eat? Be like a fucking flower, petal. Survive on the sun. Flowers are beautiful.
You are not.
Be like a flower.
The music is too loud. It makes it hard to think.
Your thoughts are worthless anyway.
She stands. The dogs look at her sleepily. Hoping for treats. Hoping for attention. She floats by.
Into the bathroom.
Because what’s the fucking point?
It’s behind the mirror.
She tugs it free. It glistens in the clear light.
Oh, it says. You.
Her wrist is covered in scar tissue.
She has to push harder.
But that’s okay.