BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The sound of the alarm broke the stillness of the room, causing me to stir from my sleep. I slowly arose and called for my sister, my voice raspy from the night before, “Hazel?” I was met with silence. I trudged to the kitchen and made myself a simple breakfast, it was all I could manage. My eyes routinely skipped over the mirror on the counter, as I aimlessly circled the island and saw the boning knife lying out near the dry-erase marker that rested below Hazel’s good morning message. “Grab them.” I tried to ignore the voice in the back of my head. “Today’s the day.” I resisted the urge to listen. Tried to push the thought out of my mind, but I succumbed to their request.
I grabbed the knife and marker and hurried to the bathroom, my pulse quickening with my pace. I looked at myself in the wall length mirror. At the dull-blonde hair that sat on my chubby face, the puffiness that plagued my under eye, the flab that dangled from every part of my body, the stretch marks that had grown on my stomach. I uncapped the marker and began to draw dotted lines across all of it. Everything that I wanted gone. I carefully sat the pen on the counter and washed my hands, before reaching for the boning knife.
The stainless steel of the knife indented my skin, its frigid edge scattering goose-bumps across my left side. I winced as I slowly added pressure, blood trickling out of my side, onto my clenched fingers, and down onto the floor. Drip. The droplet collided with the tile. My knuckles grew pale from the determination held in them as I created an even deeper incision. The blade stopped, my gaze journeying across the opening in my side. I smiled to myself, not noticing the tears that were now pouring from my eyes.
My body screamed at me as I plunged my hands into the meticulously carved hole in my side, but I remained expressionless. I curled the tips of my fingers around a slimy, spongy piece of tissue and pulled. My body burst aflame, every nerve pleading for me to stop. But my face remained vacant. I pulled and I pulled, the tiny lumps of fat I removed falling from my rose-dyed hands. Splot. They collided with the tile. When my fingers no longer had any of the spongy chunks to grasp, I refastened my grip on the knife; methodically maneuvering it, as if it were a scalpel and I a surgeon, to the next dotted line on my right side. Then my thighs. Then my arms. Then my boobs. Then my face.
Scarlet tears rushed down my cheeks, splattering the inner frame of my glasses as I fixed the puffiness under my eyes. I didn’t move to take them off. I clawed at every crevice, every nook, every corner of myself. But, before I knew it, my legs became liquid beneath me—matching the blood that covered them. Thump. My body collided with the tile. The tile stained by the blood oozing from my every orifice. For a second I didn’t notice, I continued. Continued to play surgeon. Continued to try and fix every imperfection. Then, my blood stained glasses slid off my face as I looked into the mirror. I froze. Every muscle in my body stopped in unison as I gazed into my own eyes, shedding tears of blood. I saw my mutilated body and the tiny, tiny, clumps of fat lying around me. The pool of blood I was bathing in. Myself. I finally saw myself. It wasn’t the same one I’d just seen. It was the real me. It was what I longed for. An hourglass figure. Striking cheekbones. Bright eyes. Supple skin, now drowning in the gore I’d inflicted. I was every standard I so utterly hated. How hadn’t I seen it? There was nothing to fix, and my grasps at perfection destroyed it all.
All the nerves in my body were breaking down, suffocating within the confines of my body. Still, I held onto consciousness like it was my mother’s hand the night the ambulance took her. I felt myself sobbing harder than I ever had in my life, but the reservoirs had run dry. Haze crept into my mind, ensnaring it. Beckoning me to give in. To accept it. My grip loosened, dimming my vision. But I couldn’t. No, no, no, NO. I wouldn’t let Hazel find me like this. I couldn’t. I retightened my grip, reaching for the lock—but my body couldn’t do it. Thoughts swirled in the mist, trying to clear it so I could do something, anything. My eyes darted as fast as they could around the room—then something broke through the mist. I reached my crimson finger toward the mirror, writing the only thing I could think of. Then, I gave in.
The mist returned, gently welcoming me into its maternal embrace. I let it envelop me. I became petrified, my gaze locked on the message I had inscribed. The last thoughts I’d have raced through my mind. “What was I thinking? How could I be so stupid? I can’t leave her—what’ll happen to her? Who will take care of her? Will Hazel be o
kay?”
“I’
m s
or
r
y”
