Lime and Soda ✓

two - bloodstains

The next morning I wake with the sun shining brilliantly through the gap in the curtains, and blood staining my pillow.

I come to slowly, aware of a sort of uncomfortable tightness in my upper arms, and as I roll over, a violent itching sensation across my chest. 'Fuck,' I whisper to myself, and yank myself upright to inspect the damage.

Scabs and smears of blood encrust my right arm from the elbow to the shoulder. I poke one cautiously and wince. My nails, upon closer inspection, are disgusting, full of blood and bits of skin, which tells me all I need to know - I've been scratching myself raw in my sleep. Again.

Sometimes I wish I bite my nails, because if I did, I wouldn't have this problem. Unfortunately, I've been blessed with long nails that many girls would kill for, but which to me are a curse. When my eczema isn't too bad, I love my long nails. But right now, I could slap myself for not cutting them before bed.

I decide not to prolong the agony, and heave myself out of bed, stumbling to the mirror. I take in my wild bed hair, not graceful, like Astrid's, just downright messy. My eyes are puffy, the skin around them red, dry and inflamed. My neck is a mess - patches of pink, itchy skin next to circles that are smooth and pale, like a jigsaw. I stop there and go for a shower before I get to my shoulders. I don't want to see anymore.

The hot water burns and stings my skin, and it becomes redder and redder as I stand there, but I need to get rid of the tight, itchy sensation covering most of the upper half of my body. My legs, for some reason, are fine. Always have been. My arms are always the worst. Every morning I run to the shower as soon as possible. Shower, then slather myself in whatever cream I think won't sting too much today. That usually makes it bearable until lunchtime.

Once I'm out of the shower and I've covered myself in as much cream as possible, I pull on some clothes. Denim shorts, a long-sleeved turtleneck top, and my black Converse. A bit of an odd combination, but it covers the worst of the damage.

I head back to my room and lay my towel on the radiator to dry. My room at Bea's has been mine from when her kids moved away for university - before that we'd share, but now I have it to myself. It's a small room under the eaves of the house, so the ceiling slopes downwards towards the window and I have to watch not to bash my head when I get out of bed in the morning. There's a skylight right above my bed. I can watch the whole universe through this skylight when I can't sleep. At the other end of the room, next to the full-length mirror and wardrobe, is the window - I can see all the way down, past the cliffs, to the miniature people walking their dogs on the beach. I never get bored of the views.

I stop by the mirror, distracted by a group of people surfing. They're not very good at it; they keep falling off. Still, I'd like to be them.

I drag my attention back to the mirror. My eyes are still red, but less dry and puffy after the shower and the cream. I look beyond that, into my face, really look at myself. My thin blond hair hangs around my face, damp from my shower. My eyes are a grey-blue, like the sea on a stormy day, like my mum's, like Bea's. The Pearces all have the same stormy eyes. Thin lips, undefined jawline, small nose that, if you stare at my face for too long, becomes slightly off-centre. I don't have Astrid's brown, sun-tanned skin, freckles or impossibly white, straight teeth that means she's never afraid to smile. My skin burns instead of tanning and there's a gap between my front teeth. Not a large one, anymore, after braces, but it's there, and I know it's there whenever I open my mouth.

But once I've covered my face in a layer of makeup, stuck some little earrings in my ears and dried my hair so it frames my face in a blonde halo, I look nearly okay. So I leave it there and head downstairs to have breakfast with Bea.