The Words on my Skin

Stupid . The black felt tip marker rubs the letters against my skin. I imagine the letters, sinking into my skin, traveling to my brain. Imprinted forever on me. Hell, they already were. Another word jolts into my mind Jump . The moment comes back to me. I can smell the cafeteria, the familiar smell of packaged food and high school. The day replays. The girl sitting next to me screams "Jump, Fatgirl, jump!" And I do.

I jump.

And then in the hallways, walking the tile floor, trying to be invisible. Praying they don't see me. But they do. They always do. "Jump!" They'd all yell, excitement edging their voices. It'd been going on for a year. They'd tell me to jump, and I'd do it. I don't even remember how it started. All I can remember is hoping down the hallways, books in hand, watching them laugh. Tears pressing at my eyes. Manipulative freaking devils. I'd jump, and they'd storm out in laughter, the guys slapping each other on the shoulder, because it was funny to them. Then sometimes you'd get the girl who'd quietly watch. But you know? She's as bad as them.

I have two words on my arm now. Another one rings in my brain all the time. I pick up the marker from the comforter and write on my bare leg in big, thick black letters. Fatgirl. I walk to my dresser, and pick up the stack of papers, tied together with a thick tan rubber band. I attempt fitting the band around all the notes-pink post-its, scraps of loose leaf paper, whole pages torn from note books. The fliers that covered my locker. I flinch from the sound of the rubber band, but loosely disregard it. I skim my fingers over the side of the pile. It feels good. All the hate feels good, motivates me more. I look at the letters. They all start the same way-Dearest Fatgirl. Anger pulses through my veins. I tear one letter in half, the sound of ripping paper sounds so calming. Like washing away one letter of the many, one less to worry about. But quickly I gain control of myself. I can't rip them. I scatter them on the floor, around the cheap plastic folding chair.

I sit back on my bed; I tell myself to relax. But I can't. So I write. I write it all on my legs. You stupid bitch...Dumbass.

All of it. All. Of. It. Until I have covered myself in the hate of others.

The words bear a heavy weight on my body. I get the rope that has been sitting on the edge of my bed. I hang it on the nail that is above the chair. The letters surround me, comfort me. I am no longer Sara-I am Fatgirl. I'm the idiot. The dumbass.

I peel off the underwear. Strip myself of the bed shirt. I open the window, feeling the soft air of early spring. I look at the stars. My mother used to tell me that the stars were heaven's shining souls. They shed light on our darkness, our night. There was a time I believed that.

I tie the rope to the nail as I stand on the grey, cushioned folding chair. Then I tie it around my neck. It is heavier then I had expected. Strands of stray hair cover my face. For a moment my right eye is blinded with strands of brown. I push it out of the way, tucking it behind my ears. I try to do it softly and gracefully, trying to make a moment of it, but there's no use. I stand on the very top of my toes on the chair. I let the words around me, the words on me, engross me. I feel the faint breeze from the open window. It feels so incredibly wonderful. Heat and sweat radiates off my body. I second guess, but I tell myself no. It's far to late.

I take my bare foot, my left foot, and kick over the chair. A sound escapes from my lips, but I quiet it, careful not to wake me parents.

And like that, I no longer belong here. The night has stolen me, will cleanse my soul, and I will be free.