Skinny • Book 1 In The Reality Series

Calum

People in my opinion are a lot like those fake cakes in the front window of bakery's; beautiful on the outside, appealing, perfect but on the inside its all lies, nothing but cardboard and glue.

We show people but we think that want to see and hide the parts of ourself that we don't like, the parts that given the chance someone out there would love.

We play pretend and dress up just to leave the house, only wiping away the paint and letting our hair down when we're alone, away from the audience in love with the character we've created.

Staring down at my lunch in the toilet I removed a wad of toilet paper from the roll and wiped the sludge of stomach acid and chewed up taco from my fingertips.

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since I'd seen or heard from Katy. Two weeks without seeing her smile, her eyes glistening like Christmas lights. Two weeks without hearing her voice, without inhaling her scent, without feeling her warm hand in mine.

Flushing the toilet, I exited the school bathroom stall and crossing to the sink began washing my hands.

Life without Katy was like a life without light, a frigid eternity void of the warmth of the sun's rays.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror I took in the angular frame of my body, the protruding bones acting as a weak frame, supporting my skin.

I looked at my watch.

I had three minutes until English where I was supposed to turn poem. I had two. The one I'd written about Katy, and the one I'd written hastily today, not able to bear the thought that I ever could have, for one solitary moment loved someone as self centered and flaky as her.

Rinsing our my mouth with soap, I looked down at my phone, waiting for a text from her and knowing there would be none.

I needed to move on.

She wasn't coming back. I'd waited, hoped, dreamed, hell I'd even prayed that she would return. But the longer I went without her, the more I went from missing her to hating her.

I pulled my poem out of my folder and read it over.

The bathroom tiles are cold beneath my bare feet.

My stomach churns, the guilt in my chest causing my heart to thunder like a caged beast, desperate for freedom.

It's my own arm which twists, my own fingers dancing in my throat, pulling, beckoning, forcing up the revolting sludge.

It splashes.

My mouth and throat burn, the vile taste dancing with malice on my tongue.

I close my eyes as the remains hit the water and the water splashes my cheeks, cold on my flushed flesh.

I look down to my hand, coated with chunks of guilt, half digested pieces of shame and self loathing.

I look to the mirror and stare down the demon watching me through the glass, empty, bloodshot, lifeless eyes, red from strain. Soggy crumbs cling to dry lips, with cracking corners, hollow cheeks, running nose, trembling knees.

I hate the war.

One side demanding nourishment to excess.

The other voiding the rations.

The mix of shame and pride, guilt and contentment, is all overshadowed by overwhelming disgust and hatred.

I long to experience the freedoms of some other living creature, uninhabited by the darkness which knowledge and consciousness of ones own mind and existence brings.

  The icy tap water is cold on my hands as I rinse away the spoils of another war lost, or won, depending on which faction of my mind controls the helm.

I long for freedom from the prison that is my mind. Broken parts of a hole, none quite fitting together, all shouting angrily to the next, babbling over each other like monkeys.

The mint on my raw, acid worn throat and tongue stings. Burning like bodies on some ancient battlefield.

I'm living in a hell of my own creation.

A gun of rejection to the back of my head, I tell no one, remaining silent, suffering in isolation.

My tears and the crime I have just committed stay my greatest secret, locked behind a purse lipped smile.

I feel there is one end to this nightmare though I can't bare to pass the sadness resting gently in my soul to another I love, so I fight my war alone.

Alone. That's what I was. I was stupid to think that Katy cared, that anyone cared.

Popping a piece of gum into my mouth, I swung my backpack over my shoulder and headed to class, angry at myself for throwing up, angry at Katy for leaving and angry at the world.

Thank you to whoever reads this for sticking with me and continuing to read this story. It means more then you know.