Met Online

Chapter 8

Trigger warning for self harm - please take care of yourself and read at your own risk or skip this chapter xx

My mother used to tell me that size never mattered; that true beauty shinned from within. She told me that whenever I felt insecure about myself, all I had to do was look into the mirror and see past all of my imperfections. That, of course, was before she got swallowed by her job and forgot her responsibilities as a parent.

Now, as I gaze into the mirror, all I can see is my own defects. How can I not? They're highlighted in marker: dark lines circling the parts of my body that I hate the most and crisscrossing with my faint scars several places on my pale skin. I briefly wonder if Samantha noticed the faint lines as she was drawing her treasure map on my body and if it ever crossed her mind that she was the cause of them.

I still remember the first time I met Samantha. My parents and I had moved halfway across the country during the second semester of my freshmen year when my mother's company had offered her a higher-ranking position in the company's department in Richfield. I started school two weeks into the second semester of my freshmen year and was practically dumped in any random class that had room for me. My hair was a mess that first year, my puppy fat still evident on my sides and I was still sporting a training bra.

Samantha and I got paired up as partners for an English project during my first week at Richfield. From the minute she laid her eyes on me I was her black sheep. I was too naïve back then to realize that the gleam in her eyes weren't from the possibility of a new friendship but instead from her finding a new punching bag. People like Samantha have the special ability to sense vulnerability, I think that's why she choose me; she could smell my fear and it made the game that much more fun for her.

Ever since then I've been a necessary piece in her popularity game. She's used me as her latter in the high school hierarchy, knocking me down only so she could rise higher up in the hierarchy. It's one of those things that everyone knows about yet no one dares to talk about it.

I only ever spoke of it once: it was in tenth grade on the day Samantha had gotten the idea of calling me Four-Eyes, a nickname that spread like a wild wind throughout school. My mother came home early to find me in tears in my bedroom in the middle of the day. It was before her priorities got messed up and her work took first place and I was reduced to second priority.

That day my mother fought tooth and nail to get the truth out of me. She was desperate to know what had made her little baby end up in tears. After I had sobbed my way through my explanation she took me in her arms, hugged me tight and insured me that Samantha was just jealous of me and that's why she treated me the way that she did. She encouraged me to speak to her and sort things out, convinced that it was all just a misunderstanding. Despite the many times she has told me that same thing I've never believe her. I have nothing for Samantha to be jealous over and there's nothing to be misunderstood in the icy glare she always shoots my way. Ever since that day I have made sure that my mother isn't home whenever I cut classes, not that she has time to care nowadays. Between meetings and business dinners she rarely has time to me, not that I really care anymore. I've learned to survive on my own.

Unwillingly my gaze travels downwards in the mirror again. Every part of my naked body disgusts me; from the way my pale skin creates waterfalls in my stomach when I bend over to my way to my oversized cleavage. My stomach is too big and bulky. My thighs are too large and collide together in the middle, eliminating all traces of a thigh gap. I wish I could cut straight to my bones and remove the extra thirty pounds I've been cursed with.

Without any hesitation I pull open the first drawer in my dresser and push a dozen of bunch up socks away. My fingers graze the hard surface of a small box, that once contained a beautiful piece of jewelry but now only serves as a hiding place for my inner most secret. The box feels heavy in my hands as the thought of what lies within it comes to mind, but I push it away, determinate not to dwell in my decision. I rip the lid from the box and toss it somewhere on my floor, not caring where it ends up. The metal reflects the lonely sunray that slips through my curtains and into my room. It has a few dents in it from where I've struggled to remove it from the razor it came from. With one last look in the mirror I place the cold metal against the warm skin on my stomach. And as the blade digs further into my skin, tracing the trail of the marker, I relish in my hatred for Samantha.

I hate her for what she's done, for the power she has over me. I hate the way the sound of her voice crawls underneath my skin and twists my gut. I hate the way she makes me see myself through her eyes; making me hate myself as much as she hates me. I especially hate the way she's made me consider disappearing forever and yet I entertain the thought more than I should.

I want to collapse on the floor, letting my blood soak the white carpet and let sleep whirl me away from reality. But I know if I do it will create evidence of my weakness on the carpet that I'll never be able to get off. Evidence that will undoubtedly cause question ones my mother sees them. So instead of collapsing on the floor I clean up my cuts and Band-Aid them, before I clean the blood from the blade and place it back in its box, which I stash under my socks where no one will ever find it. I check the carpet for droplets of blood, but I don't see any. Then I crawl under the covers of my bed and cradle myself. 

Despite the burning in my cuts I feel empty inside; numb. I should be crying but I have nothing left to give of me; no more tears to shed. I feel pathetic for giving into my hatred: for allowing Samantha to get to me so easily. I bury myself in the covers and wait for sleep to come and take me from reality. A few minutes later my phone rings. "Hallo?" I groan into the receiver, not trying to conceal my irritation.

"What are you doing Friday?"

//AN: thank you for all your amazing comments - you guys are the sweetest!!//