He stood still, frozen to the concrete, and watched me in startled fascination. And then the train started again.
For the first time in my entire life I felt loss after an encounter with a stranger. My happiness dissipated the second he disappeared from view. Who was he?
I would soon be too distracted by pain to care.
Two
All my ugly
…One year later…
“Were you just fucking my guy, you stupid cunt? I’m gonna fuck you up, you trashy little slut.”
Trying to get away, I hurried down the alleyway. But hands grabbed my hair and pulled me back. I fell to the ground, air knocked out of me.
“You just fucked him, didn’t you? I’ll fuck you up!”
SMASH!
*****
I opened my eyes, barely able to breathe from the fear. I sat up, with a hand over my chest as I fumbled out of the sheets and jumped out of bed. My heart was racing, my skin was slick with sweat, and my mouth wide open. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. An acidic taste swept my throat, and I knew what was coming.
I raced out of my room and down the hallway, colliding into the door of the bathroom. Shaking, I opened it just in time as puke erupted from out of my mouth. Half of it spilled over the tile floor before I reached the toilet. My body shook violently as I unloaded last night’s small piece of lasagne. Pressure built in my throat and head. All I wanted to do was breathe.
After I expelled everything and then some, I collapsed, half drenched in the vomit on the floor. Not wanting to feel my face, I threw my shirt off and wiped it. I stunk.
I’m vile. So fucking vile.
I groaned and shook. But this time it was sobs coming out of my mouth. I curled up in a ball and pitied my existence for the millionth time this year.
My heart hurt. My chest ached. My body felt weak. My life sucked.
So I cried. Even though it didn’t make me feel better, I cried.
*****
I spent an hour cleaning up my mess. It would have probably taken ten minutes if I actually gave a fuck. Then I took a shower and sat curled up on the tile floor. The water pounding down on me was cathartic. I liked to imagine the water had a healing power and could take away all my ugly.
I stood up on numb legs after and stepped out. I didn’t glance in the mirror once as I dried myself off and headed back to my bedroom. I threw an overgrown sweater on and baggy pants. I tied my hair up and slipped into my beaten up sneakers. Then I grabbed the keychain off my desk and threw my backpack strap over my shoulder.
The day was still young as I moved through the still house. I grabbed my lunch from out of the fridge and slipped out. I put my hood over my head and ambled down the sidewalk. It was a chilly morning. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared down at my feet as I walked. Despite the early start, cars were motoring down the roads speedily on my way to the bus stop.
I saw the same few people waiting when I got there. I felt their momentary stares, but never was there a word spoken. It was okay like that. Strangers weren’t very friendly, and that was exactly what I liked about people these days. They kept to themselves and were too concentrated on having their eyes plastered to their phone screens.
I didn’t even have a phone anymore. That was my own personal choice, and one that Mom forever scolded me about. There was an irony to that.
However, I wasn’t some electronic boycotter with a message to send. I did have an MP3 player, and it was my most treasured item I carried with me wherever I went.
When the bus came bounding our way, I slipped the headphones into my ear and blasted Everloving by Moby. Oh yeah, this was the shit.
I took a seat on the bus and pulled my enormous sunglasses (ones that made me look like a life-sized bug) from out of my bag. I put them on and stared out the window. I watched the world go by. Watched the countless faces through car windows alongside the bus. The tired, angry looks of some. The bored, discontent looks of others. All so generally unhappy.
What they didn’t realize was I’d give anything to trade places with them.
*****
The morning was painful. The classes went by at a dismally slow pace.
College sucked.
I kept my face down, my hood over my head, my eyes on my notes as I scribbled away. Halfway through History, I opened my sketchpad and continued filling in my latest creation’s face. I sketched the soft curve of Mum’s chin, the distinct lines of her high cheekbones, the crinkles around her eyes. I omitted a lot of wrinkles because, well, I didn’t want to remind her she was fifty three. What kind of fucking daughter would I be if I did?
“Well done, Miss Landon,” said Mr Finch before placing my essay in front of me.
I didn’t respond to him as I glanced numbly at my mark. A-
Whatever.
He moved along and I continued filling in the contours of her face. My lips curled up slightly at the mole on the corner of her mouth. She always hated the look of it. Always wished it wasn’t there. Of course she conveniently stopped complaining about it after the incident.
When class ended, I hurried to the nearest handicapped restroom. No, I wasn’t handicapped, but I didn’t want to go to the female restroom and surround myself with chicks who spent minutes on end re-drawing their make-up, hiding their ugly I would have given the world to have.
So I locked myself up and did my thing. Then I washed my hands and finally looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in four days. Avoiding my reflection was a norm for me. My record was ten days.
I swallowed as my eyes danced around my face. I grabbed the sketchpad out of my bag and flipped to the page I longed for to be real. I placed it against the left side of my face, right down the middle where my sketch beautifully illustrated the perfection I used to be.
When it got too hard to breathe sometimes, or if my morning round of puking was especially brutal, I did this. I looked whole this way. I wasn’t ruined. I wasn’t disgusting.
I was me again.
A tear fell out of my eye as I threw the sketchpad back in my bag and looked at what I’d become. At all my ugly. The marred features always felt like a physical slap to the face. The still pink scars ran deep and thick. Jagged and impossible to see past.
Scarface.
I spat at the mirror. “Disgusting,” I told my reflection on my way out.
*****
“Pick a card,” Emily pressed, flashing the splayed out cards in my face.
I batted her hands away so I could watch the television. “Not right now,” I told her irritably.