CHRYSALIS

9.

TW: slut shaming. anxiety attacks. depression. It's a rough one, but a shorter one.

Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. I lean forward toward the mirror in the bathroom, putting too much of my weight on my arms, but I can't be bothered to care. I stare intensely at the dull eyes looking back at me in the mirror. Their blue color is tinted silver like it always is when I cry.

Whore. Whore. Whore. "whore." I whisper at the girl in the mirror. She's heard it a million times before, when I yell it at her inside my head. Sometimes, like today, I tell her out loud. I tell her what she is. I remind that girl staring back at me with those dead eyes that she is indeed a whore.

She has been since that fateful night two weeks after leaving Marcus.

Two weeks! Jesus Christ, I couldn't even give it a whole month?

Somewhere in her brain, she's aware that two weeks was fine. Marcus hasn't touched her in months. Hadn't looked at her in even longer. She would cry and beg for him to just touch her. A hand on her cheek, an arm around her waist, anything.

Why didn't he want to touch her anymore? What was wrong with her? Somewhere in her brain she knows that sleeping with that man two weeks after her breakup wasn't that big of a deal. It just felt so good to be wanted. He touched her and she felt like she lit up from within. It was thrilling. So she just kept chasing that feeling.

Chasing that passion and that jolt of electricity that ran through her body when someone wanted her. She'd been deprived of it for so long she didn't know how to stop once she started getting it.

So she slept with a lot of people, in a lot of places. She let herself go wild in Europe and promised herself that when she got to L.A. she would stop and just try actually dating people.

However, when she got to L.A. she realized she wasn't ready to date people yet, she wasn't ready to trust people with an emotional connection. She didn't want to be vulnerable to anyone, she didn't want to be attached to anyone on an emotional level, she didn't trust herself yet.

So she didn't go out very often. She didn't drink outside of her home very often. She kept the few friends she made at a distance, not really allowing them to be close enough to her to see how fucked up she was. She was a very mellow homebody with a great collection of sex toys.

Until September, when she agreed to go out to celebrate a birthday of a friend. She drank with her friends and laughed and danced with strangers, having a great time.

Her friends joined her on the dance floor, all of them dancing together to the provocative music. When Santana's hands found their way to her hips she felt the electricity jolt through her body. When his body moved behind hers she felt her inhibition's slip away from her. When his low, raspy, voice hit her ear she was done for.

I blink slowly at the girl in the mirror, wiping the vomit from my mouth. I stare at her harshly for a few more seconds before I break away long enough to turn the shower on, needing to scrub the memories from my body.

After a shower I spend several minutes scrubbing my teeth and mouth, avoiding eye contact with the mirror. Then I make my way back to my area to get dressed for the day, not really sure what to wear on a day like today where sadness and shame are fighting for their claim over your misery.

I decide on a tight long sleeve shirt that feels like a hug, tucked in to some tapered black trousers. I pair it with a croc print black bootie and a simple gold hoop. I don't bother with eye makeup, just glueing some lashes on before I swipe a red lip on. I straighten my hair so it's sleek and shiny before stepping back to examine my work.