Imperfections

Tw: Self-harm and suicide

“Mum’s going to kill us,” I said as I scrubbed a particularly stubborn smear of lip stick off the kitchen counter, “She is absolutely going to kill us.”

“Then scrub faster, idiot.” Mary mumbled, chuckling to herself. Her feet curled underneath her as she slid onto the floor, spilling the glass of water in her hands.

I looked at her and sighed. In her state, she was more trouble than she was worth. The water on the floor crept outwards, falling through the cracks in the floorboards. Great I was going to have to mop it again.

“Come here Mary,” I sighed as I picked my mess of a sister up from the floor. She smelled of rotten tequila and vomit, and I was particularly aware of the sogginess of her hair, which whipped my face as she turned to look at me.

“I want more o’ that,” She pointed to the dining table, where dozens of empty beers and red plastic cups rolled sideways in stacks.

“No more of that for you.” I heaved her to the living room, “Come on, just lie down now.”

Setting my sister on the couch, which smelled particularly nasty, I took a deep breath and waited for my head to stop spinning. I was aware that the stench of alcohol not only radiated off her, but, ever so slightly, wafted up from my own mouth too. I was hungry, oh I was hungry. But I must not eat. No! I must not.

The half empty bowl of Doritos stared at me dauntingly, the empty pizza boxes piled high. And yet, on a plate far, far away, was a perfectly good slice of pepperoni, untouched and whole. Oh, how I wanted to fill my aching stomach, to fill it with warm, hearty food. It grumbled as if in response. Please, it groaned, pizza! But I knew I could not eat.

Prying my eyes away, I turned my attention back to Mary, who had fallen fast asleep. Her perfectly thin figure splayed across the couch elegantly, her golden hair fell beautifully across the baby pink cushions. Even in this mess she was perfect, still the girl people wanted to either be or be with. And I was still just her sister fat, ugly sister. I hated her for it. I hated the way she talked as if there was nothing that could stand in her way. The way the boys fell at her feet from the first glance. The way girls pranced about her without ever having to have had an introduction. I hated her for the pride in my mother’s face every time she looked at her, when all she saw in me was pity and embarrassment. I hated that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I will never be that perfect girl.

But mostly, I hated the thing I saw in the mirror every morning I woke up.

I looked down at myself. Even through the layers of fabric I could still see the rolls on my stomach, each mark, each imperfection. I could see the birthmark on my thigh, which splayed unnaturally across the expanse of my leg. I could feel the wobbling of my chins, which jiggled uncontrollably as I walked away from my sleeping sister.

Scrambling through the piles of empty bottles, I pulled out a fresh bottle, and lay myself amidst empty ones. Sinking into the hard, cold glass felt like pulling over a safety blanket. I felt my body relax. Popping the lid, I tipped my head back and the contents of the bottle along with it.

See, it’s always a gamble with alcohol, for there are two things that could happen, instantaneous relief and happiness, or the crushing weight of unfathomable emotions. This time, it was the latter. A wave of emotions crashed through the barriers which I had built for so long, flooding my mind with the force of a broken dam. Anger, bitterness, sadness, self pity.

Drown it out! My mind screamed, More, more, more

The bottles piled at my feet as fiery liquid raced through my body, burning my empty intestines with its warmth. I grabbed it, the last slice of pizza, and shoved it down my throat.

Somehow, I found myself at the bathroom. There were tears streaming down my face, leaving black stains on my face. My mascara was waterproof. Or so it had said on the packaging. The hair that I had spent hours on styling fell tangled down my spine. The lipstick I had so delicately picked out smeared across my cheek, blood red and unyielding. I hated what I saw, and yet I found myself back here. Again. And again. And again. Looking at the same image I despised. An artist haunted by her work, desperately scribbling, re-shaping, moulding.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry. I wanted to smash the stupid mirror and tear it from the wall. I wanted to rip that contorted sketch into a million pieces, and watch it burn in the mantle. I wanted to watch the flames curl the paper from the edges as it slowly erased the marks on the page, to watch the smoke rise into the heavens, disappearing in the stormy clouds. I wanted to watch the wind carry my ashes away, to a place where I could finally be free.

Shaking, my hands reached for the orange container sitting high on the shelf, the contents of which rattled against my touch. An hour of pure bliss, I thought. Yes. That was what I needed. To feel nothing but the euphoria of my minds concoctions, to see the flashing lights shining down on me as I drifted up towards the moon. I loved the feeling it gave me, the way it carried me away to a place where I could be someone I was not. The power it gave me, being able to see the colours of the universe, the intensity of the sound waves, straight into the core of the earth.

Forgive me, father.

Some days were better, others worse. I would wake up tomorrow without memory of this cacophony of a night. Sometimes it was better to forget, I have learned. It was easier that way. My nails dug deep into my palm as I poured the contents into my mouth. It was too much, probably, but then again I didn’t really care, for the worse was the better. And I wanted the worse.

As I drifted far, far away, I saw my mother, kissing me goodnight, a toddler sat beside me, her curly blond hair barely the length of her shoulders.

“Will you read us a story?” She battered her big, round eyes.

“Please mommy?” I tilted my head innocently.

My mother smiled and scrunched her eyebrows, as if in thought, “Fine. But only a quick one, okay?”

I saw myself at the carnival. The big rollercoaster leering over my head.

“Let’s go!” I squealed, “Come on Mary! Or are you a little scaredy cat?”

She looked at me and rolled her eyes, Oh please!, and raced towards the line. I followed closely after. She could to move her legs pretty fast for a person so young, but I was taller and older. I overtook her with no problem.

I was with my father, lying in the hospital bed. His heartbeat monitor beeped steadily as he took my hand. Smiling up at me weakly. Tears welled in my eyes as I touched the last wisp of hair on his weathered scalp. He reached up as if to wipe my tear away, but dropped his hand in exhaustion.

“Sarah,” He whispered hoarsely, “Be strong for your sister. Be strong for me.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“I love you.”

There were faces staring down at me. A siren rang in the distance as I felt my body be dragged like a puppet. They lifted me up, my limbs felt weak and my eyes lolled about its socket.

“Dad?” I tried to say, but no sound came out.

There it was, a familiar face, a woman, I think. A girl.

She was gone before I could put a name to her.

I wondered where they were taking me. These strange, alien people. I wondered if it would be a better place than here. Some planet, perhaps, previously undiscovered. Maybe my father was there, waiting for me on the other side.