Evanescent

She sits on her bed, late afternoon. She just got her hair cut short yesterday - in hopes of making a noticeable change in her life. She sits, in sweatpants to cover up her gross thighs, in a loose tank top to cover up her fat stomach, and in socks to cover up her unpleasant feet. She's on her phone, scrolling through Pinterest pins and reposting to her boards that scream SAVE ME! But sits as silently as ever, while the household goes on independently. 

*

C'mon. Get used to it, she tells herself. The empty pit in her stomach only reminds her that she's had a small breakfast and skipped lunch again. Memories of skipping lunch for 2.5 months in school just a few weeks ago are dragged up to her mind. She tries to push them away, but she's just so hungry. I can't eat because I'm too fat. No guy's going to even like a fat girl, let alone love. The thoughts don't go away. 

*

Dinner comes, and she tries to discard food while making it seem like she's had her full dinner plate. Her parents, not speaking to each other. Her brother, who wants to show everyone his Legos and never shuts up. Her, who just sits there and avoids conflict. She tries so hard to be normal. 

*

After-dinner dishes are done. Her family decides to skip their regular game of badminton, due to hazardous weather outside. She locks herself back in the black hole that they call Emily's room.

*

A couple hours pass, and she sits on her chair, tilted back as she stares at the ceiling. The lights are off as an effort to prevent a headache. Why does the world have to be so unfair? Why me? Why do I have to suffer here? The thoughts turn to her empty eyes, cracking and leaking.

*

Her parents have gone to bed, separately in separate rooms. They haven't gotten a divorce yet, because they masquerade as a Christian family while Satan overthrows the house. Her brother fell asleep awhile ago, so she sneaks back out to the kitchen. All she does is grab the biggest kitchen knife and sits on the couch quietly. Some light makes its way through the bottom of the windows. She holds the knife to her wrist, and lightly draws a thin stream of pressure to it. 

*

The small indentation turns to a slim cut. Two, maybe three inches at most. She does it again. And again. The butcher knife doesn't stop until 1:19 a.m. exactly. Her arms, both of them from wrist to elbow to shoulder, are covered in glistening beads of crimson liquid. The release of dopamine spreads throughout her body, as a chill runs up her spine. 

*

No more food. She forces herself to wash and scrub the knife of any trace, then sniffs it again for the familiar scent of metal. Familiar. You're a worthless piece of trash, ugly and unloved and a nothing to society. Why don't you just get the FREAKING GUTS TO KILL YOURSELF ALREADY AND END IT?!?!!

*

The sound of silent crying fills the black hole. It's nearly two when it's over. Her arms, bandaged in layers of once-white toilet paper, rest like deadweights in a stretchy grey sweater. She pulls up the covers to her head, now with an unfortunate migraine. Taking a couple sleeping pills, she turns off her alarm set for the morning and clicks off the light. 

*

All is quiet.