Wasting Away

• Sydnie Gounder, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2017

She woke up faint-hearted, too exhausted at the thought of even going to that dreadful school. The taunts from immature jerks begin to drift through her mind as she prepares for another elusive day. She brushes foundation over her wrists ever so gently, in fear of her mother’s judgements if she were to ever discover the release her razor offered. Scraping away every ounce of pain as her veins were flooded with an infinite current of adrenaline. Overcome with relief as her flawed skin was removed and replaced with the delicate red she was so infatuated with. These scars; a welcome reminder of the only joy she’s succumbed to for years. Dragging herself to the bus stop with her last ounces of energy, she proceeds to witness the faces of all who’ve diminished her worth. She knows her leaving wouldn’t affect anyone, not a single soul cares for her presence.

Suffering through her classes, she hears her peers degrading mumbles, the snickering, she notices their disgusted stares, it was all becoming too much to bare. She needs peace. An escape from her existence. Tears stream down her face, verifying to her that she’s too weak to continue trying to prove herself worthy of life, of love, of being valued. Peering down at her arms, she individually scrutinises each freckle for flawing her image.

With her bus trip home adding to her revolting experiences. She drags my legs up the hallway of her house. Slamming her insipid door behind her, she strides to her mirror; traced with cracks, only to realise all her peers insults upheld truth. Her eyebrows; too thick, her cheeks; too plump, her disgraceful dimples, her blotchy skin, her bland brown eyes. Overcome with self-hatred she begins to scratch at her face in a reprimanding rage, till the subtle red drips down her forehead onto her lap. Until her fingernails were full of deceased skin, preventing her from her harmful happiness. It was time. She realises that even the warm, soothing red streams have lost all ability of providing her pleasure. With all the heart she has left, she gathers up the courage to write to her family. Maybe then they’ll realise. Maybe then they’ll remember they had a daughter. Maybe then they’ll learn to appreciate and value their children. To show love. Too useless to locate a pen within her vicinity, she recklessly rips a page from her notebook. As her fragmented face continuously leaks of blood, she tilts her head, allowing it to drop onto the page and begins to write. Spitting out what’s left of her disregarded emotions, before the earnest liquid dries up. The tender flesh of her finger soaks up the excess blood drops on the page. She is done. All the pain, all the suffering can finally come to an end. With her last jolt of life, her uncontrollably unsteady hands ensue to place the bloodstained note on her bedside table. She can finally reach peace.