In My Skin

CH 9 || Backlash

Goddamn, it hurt so much. Like someone lit a match to the endings of my nerves, and now the flames were spreading through my veins. The burning sensation was almost unbearable.

I clenched my eyes shut as if I could shield myself against the pain I'd inflicted on myself.

My arm hung at a stiff angle as my trembling fingers fumbled for the light switch. My chest tightened when I inspected the damage. The top layer of my skin was gone. In its place was angry-red, swollen flesh glistening with a colorless secretion, run through by thin lines of blood.

Tears pooled at the corners of my eyes but suddenly a laugh broke out. I had transferred schools, changed my diet, and gotten rid of everything that was even slightly irritating. I didn't use perfume, I checked every ingredient in any soap, wash, or detergent I bought. And yet. I still ended up in the same spot as I'd been in two years ago. The irony.

More laughter spilled out until sobs broke from my chest and the tears I'd been holding back finally streamed down my face. Tremors wracked through my body, and I hugged my legs to my chest with my good arm, rocking back and forth.

At some point, I got up and limped into the bathroom. The water helped calm down the burning, but the wound continued to throb painfully. There wasn't much I could do to treat it. Most ointments would only irritate it even more.

I stared at the package of cortisone pills lying on my counter. Steroids didn't help the cause, they only covered up the symptoms. They were meant to be used for emergencies. From experience, I knew relying on them for too long always ended in a backlash.

And now my time had run out.

I gripped them so hard the plastic dug into my palm and then I chucked them at the trash can. And missed.

My chest heaved. I turned and I flinched when I caught sight of my face in the mirror. My lips were cracked, and dry, flaky patches of skin covered my face. My already puffy eyes tightened around the edges.

So much for feeling well enough to wear make-up.

I had to fight the sudden urge to scratch my wound again. To feel that sweet relief, that twisted sense of satisfaction one more time to distract me from the feelings boiling inside my stomach.

My hands slammed against the basin, hard. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn't I be normal, like all the other people?

The sound of my palm smacking against the sink echoed through the apartment. Why had I scratched it? I could have stopped. If I'd been a bit stronger. If only I hadn't started scratching.

I gritted my teeth. More than once I'd woken up to find my pillow blanketed in a layer of dead skin, like a thin layer of snow covering the tip of a mountain. More than once I had discovered the telltale rust-colored stains of blood on my sheets. The signs had been there, but I'd chosen to ignore them. No. I hadn't wanted to see them.

Because you're weak, the tiny voice whispered in my head.

It was right. I was weak.

This was punishment. For making the wrong choices.

I covered my face in my hands but regretted it instantly. A scream sat on the tip of my tongue as the broken skin on my arm folded.

My fingers dug into the counter. If only I hadn't started scratching it. If only I had endured a bit longer.

Pressure built in my chest and somehow my lungs didn't seem to get enough oxygen. The room started spinning. I leaned over the basin trying to remember what Dr. Sheila had taught me.