Chiara Rose

undici

I hate it, I hate it all. Sometimes I just want to rip all my skin off and buy a replacement on Amazon or something. I always had body issues growing up. When I was younger I tended to be on the taller side, which meant I naturally weighed more. But I didn't register it like that, I looked at the numbers and saw a kid who was 10cm shorter than me weighed less than me. Which meant I was fat.

Then John and Mum got bad, which then covered my body in disgusting bruises. One of their favourite things to comment on was my body, whether it was my weight or the scars. Which is ironic, if you think the scars on my body are ugly, then stop fucking giving them to me.

Then I had a not-so-lovely relationship with Charlie, whose second favourite hobby was to subtly pick on my weight. His favourite hobby was to cheat on me. Neither of those things did anything good for my self-esteem.

I've never felt comfortable in myself, sure I pretended I did. And damn it was easy to pretend a few drinks in whilst a guy is rambling on about how hot I am. But it was all pretending, I absolutely loathe myself, and there's not much that's going to change that.

"Chiara, you still with us fragolina?" Dad softly says, pulling me out of my little pity party. Which is probably a good thing, things were about to get dark whilst I'm sitting at the dinner table.

"Uh yeah, sorry I zoned out for a second." I mumble, clearly my throat awkwardly. I look down and start picking at my salmon to avoid all the weird looks I'm getting around the table. There's usually one brother that's done something dumb within the past ten minutes, surely they can start picking on them now.

"That's okay, just eat what you can." Dad says softly, and I look back up to see him and Tino having a conversation with their eyes. They're obviously talking about me, and how they don't believe me.

"Are you sure you don't want pain relief? It was spread around your back as well, surely it's hurting like a little bitch." Rocco asks, seemingly genuinely confused. And I genuinely feel like smashing his head into the table right now.

"Do you ever know when to shut the fuck up?" Bruno screeches from opposite him, his eyes looking like they're about to pop out of his head. But now I have tears pricking the back of my eyes, and it feels a lot harder to breathe. Whether it's from an impending panic attack or broken ribs, I don't know, but I do know I need to get the fuck out of here.

"May I be excused?" I squeak out, trying not to make it obvious I'm upset. But based on the way Dad looks at me sympathetically, I failed.

"Yes, just take your dinner up with you in case you get hungry." Dad says softly, looking at me with compassionate eyes. And he doesn't have to tell me twice, I pick up my plate and cutlery and take it upstairs.

I'm not going to eat the food, there's no chance of it. If anything, I'm still full from breakfast. Throw in the impending breakdown I'm going to have, there's no time or room for any more food.

The second I step into my room, I place the plate on the desk with shaky hands, scared that if I don't put it down I'll drop it. I try to get deep breaths in, but it's not working, nothing in my fucking body is working. My hands are shaking, my lungs can't get enough air in and my brains are all muddled.

The worst thing is the small tingles that are spreading across my arms, dancing along the little white scars that I put there. The urge to add more on there slowly starts to take over, but I can't. I can't. I just can't do anything.

That's how I end up standing in the middle of chaos. Somewhere along the line my fight or flight instinct kicked in, and I completely ripped the quilt and sheets off my bed. A quarter of my closet has been ripped up and thrown to the ground. And all my books have been, carefully, put in various places across my room. It's a mess. A mess I need to clean. It's something to distract me.