Beautiful

The bus rocks us backwards and forwards, jolting as it goes over a pothole, swerving as it passes a parked car. The babble from the seats at the back is carried forwards, over the conversation the people behind me are having. The magazine in their hands rustles as they flick through the pages, their laughs as they read something amusing grating against my ears.

“What the hell does she think she looks like?” one giggles. “She looks like a pig wearing a tutu!”

“Oh my God, her legs in that dress!” Another guffaws.

“You’d think with all that money, she could at least afford a decent hairbrush!”

Bitch.

I draw my elbows in, their words itching at me like tiny nails digging into my skin. My back prickle, ears on high alert for a nasty comment that’s sure to fly my way. My breathing quickens, a tightness in my chest spreading as a pounding in my head starts to throb. Three more stops, I think, three more stops and I’ll escape.

My body curls in on itself slightly. If I can make myself small enough, I’ll blend into the seat, and they won’t notice. They won’t notice that I’m an easy target. My eyes scrunch shut as I try to breathe through it, try to blot out the black spots starting to form in my head.

The group laughs again, loudly and intrusively and my fingers grip the bottom of the seat desperately, hopelessly clinging on. The world hurtles by outside, angry blurs of green and grey and brown flashing past as I let my eyes snap open, hoping the sudden movement jolts me from the panic.

It doesn’t.

My teeth press into my lower lip, sinking deeper and deeper until I can taste the metallic twang of blood filling my mouth. Shoulders tensing and keeping completely still, I suck in a breath, waiting.

Two more stops.

“How can someone like that, be with someone like that?!”

“He must be blind!”

“And brave!”

Ugly.

Another flick of a page, another round of laughter, another palpitation of my heart. Thump thump thump.

And then we’re at my stop and the bus grinds to a halt, and I get to my feet and silence falls. A cold sweat breaks out on my back, sticking my shirt to my back and causing my hands to become clammy.

Slut.

Failure.

Joke.

I’m not sure if they’re saying them, not sure if I can hear them over the reign of my own brain’s insults. But they hurtle down at me like daggers, stabbing at my self-esteem and robbing me of breath. I suck my stomach in and bring my arms close to my body as I weave past people, determined not to touch anyone as I make my way from the bus.

A mumble of thanks to the bus driver as I step off, feet touching the ground. I scuff my shoes the entire way to the front door, gazing at soggy pavement in an attempt not to make eye contact. A cold wind rips through me, chills spiralling up my spine and up to the back of my neck. I pull the hoodie tighter, flinching as I feel the fabric press too close to my stomach.

Fat.

My key jangles in the lock, and the door creaks as I push it open with feeble force. If anything, it’s colder inside than it is out, the lights off and the rooms uninviting. They won’t be home for hours. I can write the note, leave it out and not be disturbed.

The stairs protest under me and I cringe. Each footstep seems to pain the structure, and the faster I go, the angrier it gets. When I get to the top, I stare down, a lump rising painfully in the back of my throat. A fresh ache of pain washes over me, and I choke down tears as they threaten to brim.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the my door handle, the pills like lead in my pockets. And then I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, gazing back at me like a startled deer in headlights.

Blonde hair frames a round face, curling slightly at the ends around my shoulders. A smattering of freckles creep up my left cheek, as though I’ve somehow only managed to catch the sun on one side. A crooked nose, misshapen from a childhood accident acts as a centrepiece to an otherwise plain and unoriginal face.

My eyes are dull and brown, mud colour in fact.

Utterly boring.

And then I take a step closer, thick eyebrows furrowing as I survey the girl looking back at me.

Instead of the bad things, I try to see the good. I lift the corners of my mouth into a smile, a difficult feat at first but as I force it more, it begins to feel natural, creases beginning to form at the sides of my eyes. My eyes brighten somewhat, and for the first time I realise that they are full of colours and hopes, invisible to someone who is merely seeing and not looking.

The roundness of my cheeks shows that I am well fed, well cared for, well off. Alive. The hair that hangs by my face is a little lank, but thick. The lump in my nose is the evidence of a story that still gets told to this day.

I shrug the huge hooded jumper off, scrutinising the body beneath. For the first time in a long while, I imagine good things. It is a healthy body. It works. It’s not dead or decaying. It’s not failing or brittle.

My hands rest on my reflections, breathing in deeply.

“Beautiful,” I say, eye to eye with the girl in front of me. “We’re beautiful.”

And although the words taste foreign on my lips, and although tomorrow I may have to go through the entire thing again, I turn towards the bathroom, tipping the contents of the pill box down the toilet and defiantly flush.

They small white tablets disappear from view and I sigh in relief, rather than despair. And I imagine a small box in the back of my head, and a shepherd ushering the negative words into it – shoving and poking and jabbing the dark letters into a dark space and shutting the lid firmly.

I look ahead.

And all I can see is beauty.