Trigger Warning - Mention of Self Harm
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Camila stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her clothes from earlier lay on the floor behind her and she stood in only her bra and panties. She must really be a clutz, she decided. Bruises lined the outside of her legs and her collarbone was speckled with dark blue discoloration that she couldn't recall causing. Today she'd even noticed a faded bruise in the space behind her ear. Camila was thankful for a tolerant makeup artist who didn't question the new marks on her body each day. Instead, Jorge would just compliment her on her "battle scars" and get to work on hiding them behind a thick layer of makeup.
Camila's "battle scars" didn't come close to the real thing, though. She was Camila Cabello, the famous solo act who'd soared to fame after placing second on X Factor. The small girl from Miami had little to no time to adjust before she was thrust into the spotlight at only 16 years old.
Now 18, Camila's lost count of how many singles of hers had been on Billboard's Top 100. She was proud of her music, but it wasn't her entire life. She considered her true passion to be dance. Ever since she set foot in front of a mirror in her pastel pink ballet shoes at just 3 years old, Camila had loved the gentle, graceful movements she was taught to execute in class.
Unfortunately, her managers didn't want "Camila the Ballerina." They demanded "Camila the Superstar." The superstar, who happened to fall victim to more than her share of publicity stunts... which always end up crashing and burning.
When her label had demanded she be seen in public with Austin, or "Austin the Fellow Superstar," to be exact, Camila didn't know how she could talk her way out of it. It hadn't been too bad at first. Both she and Austin were strictly friends behind the camera, and they didn't mind faking it for the few moments they had to. Her publicist was right, and by joining the two vocal powerhouses, both of their record sales skyrocketed.
Austin's fans had never truly accepted the idea of him with Camila. She didn't care, obviously, because she knew the truth, but his fans didn't. They were... ruthless, to say the least. Her presence on social media slowly faded. She didn't enjoy logging on just to be bombarded by teenage girls claiming she was "using" Austin for fame. If only they knew.
What bothered her the most was the people who would make jabs at her appearance or personality out of pure jealously of her supposed relationship with Austin. Camila had used social media before just to be heard. She liked being able to post something and see that she wasn't the only one who felt that way. But once her mentions flooded with negativity, the only tweets she'd ever send were ones her publicists had already written for her.
Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse a few months later, when extremely private photos were leaked of Austin in his backyard with one of Camila's best friends. Camila could care less that they were dating, because obviously she and Austin had nothing in common. She'd even been the one to push Normani to talk to the boy in the first place.
But no one else was aware of the well-planned media stunt that was Austin and Camila's supposed 'relationship.' So when the photos leaked, Austin was bombarded with hate. The thing Camila didn't understand was why she, also, was receiving even more negative publicity for the 'scandal that rocked their relationship.'
Management, who was less than experienced in handling two mega-famous teenagers like Austin and Camila, decided to continue on with the stunt as if nothing happened. They hoped the photos would be forgotten and the 'couple' would soon bounce back.
Powerless, Camila was forced to plaster on an even bigger smile and accompany Austin wherever management sent them. Suddently, she was the 'whore' with no 'self respect' who continued to be seen with a cheater, even though she was completely aware what he'd done.
This was the reason Camila didn't even own a phone anymore. In a fit of rage, her iPhone had taken a fatal dive off of her penthouse balcony, shattering into pieces the second it made contact with the unforgiving gravel below. Camila didn't care. She had no one to talk to anyway. It was as if nothing had changed.
Lucky for her, her voice was enough to keep selling her music, despite her newfound reputation in Hollywood. She was suddenly the girl who sat by herself at award shows, completely by choice. Camila slowly became aware of the fake utopia that was Hollywood.
Camila tried to act like it didn't faze her. She distanced herself, which looking back, she realized hadn't been the best choice. Soon, she found herself coming home to an empty penthouse each night. The only thing that ever accompanied her anywhere (besides Austin on their now weekly 'dates') was her leather backpack and ballet shoes.
She hadn't even wanted a house this huge. Camila hated it. She hated how she could hear the echo of the leaking sink from all the way across the spacey rooms. But apparently someone as well-known as her wasn't allowed to purchase the cozy studio apartment she'd begged management to let her rent.
The only thing she enjoyed about her home was the dance studio she'd spent her earnings on. Floor to ceiling mirrors coated the walls, and the sound of her bare feet against the shiny hardwood floors was enough to keep her sane, one day at a time.
Camila disliked only one thing about dance, and that was the fact of how much of her time was spent looking in a mirror. She'd always been critical of her dancing, ever since she was a little girl. Camila couldn't help that she was a perfectionist. But when her career took a nosedive, her dancing wasn't the only thing she was critiquing anymore.
And neither was her appearance. Camila was fine with the way she'd looked. Besides a few out of place freckles here and there, she couldn't complain about her appearance. With a makeup and hair artist on call, she didn't care to nitpick herself. Other people did enough of that for her.
But, she'd always been outgoing, and she slowly realized just how annoying she seemed. Maybe it was just her, but Camila always found herself smiling a little to widely or laughing way too hard at the smallest of jokes. Maybe it was because she had to take advantage of the little moments she was allowed to laugh or smile genuinely.
No one noticed when the color started draining from her skin. Probably because no one cared to look at her long enough to notice how the bags under her eyes started growing, and how her brown eyes always appeared glazed over with a new set of tears that was threatening to fall. As long as she sang and looked pretty, no one really cared about anything else she did.
What Camila found odd, though, was how easily her skin seemed to bruise compared to how quickly her scars seemed to heal. Her real "battle scars" lined her thighs. Thin, precise cuts were placed in rushed patterns against her smooth skin. Camila was the only person who knew they were there. She'd been the only who'd put them there.
She'd never imagined herself turning to something as harmful as cutting herself to alleviate the tension she felt on a daily basis. But when nothing else worked, it seemed to have been her only option.
But as she stood in front of the mirror, she could barley see the scars on her legs, even though she'd applied a new set of cuts not even a day ago. They were already scarred over, leaving small, thin, white lines instead of the dark red scabs she always expected to be there.
Her bruises stood out, though. They were always changing. Despite being a careful person, Camila assumed she'd somehow gained them in the hours she spent in her studio. She didn't know how she'd managed to bruise behind her ear from dancing alone, though. But it was something she'd learned not to question. Part of her dreamed that she actually had a rare skin disorder and would need to be sent to a secluded village in Africa to receive treatment, and disappear from the spotlight altogether.
Her cold fingers traced the purplish-green bruise on her abdomen, grazing down to her thighs and feeling the ridges where her cuts had once been. Maybe it was a good thing her body hid them so well. She wasn't sure what would happen to her if someone noticed them.
Camila soon grew tired of studying the various imperfections on her skin. She slipped back into her large t-shirt, not bothering to adorn her leggings since she was only just heading to bed. Camila was thankful that sleep came easy to her. Who was she kidding, though? She was constantly exhausted.
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This wasn't how Lauren had planned to spend her weekend. But hell, nothing ever turned out the way she planned. She'd grown used to it.
She glanced down at her phone anxiously, tapping her foot as the bus slowly rolled into motion. The man across from her was burning a hole in her with his eyes, and Lauren wanted nothing more than to shrivel up and disappear. But she always felt like that.
Her entire body was sore and she made a point of slipping the worn envelope she'd just acquired deep into her backpack. Her hair reeked like alcohol, even though Lauren had sworn off drinking years ago. At least she had some self-respect left, when it was her choice.
The bus jolted slightly and Lauren winced. She immediately cupped her hands over her abdomen, knowing the events of that night would lead to a fresh bruise on her side. Luckily, she seemed to have a body that could bounce back extremely fast, and she knew they'd be practically invisible by tomorrow.
Something was odd, though. And that was the dark cuts that lined her legs. She didn't have any idea how they'd found their way there. But there was no way of knowing. Lauren just assumed they'd ended up there during one of her many nights with her 'clients.'
Selling her body hadn't been her choice. Well, it had been somewhat. But when she was faced with the choice of dying or sacrificing some of her self-respect to put food on the table, she was sure that anyone would make the same choice she had.
Her father had left when she was ten. Lauren had been instructed to watch her baby brother in the back of their beat-up pickup truck while he ran into the supermarket to grab a few things.
He never came back.
In all honestly, Lauren had been counting down the days until it happened. Her father had always been a creature of flight. Whenever things got hard, he disappeared. And after the death of their mother, she knew it was only a matter of time.
So it didn't come to a surprise to her when an hour later, as it was growing dark out, she realized she was on her own. And from the tender age of 10 years old on, Lauren became in responsible for herself, as well as her younger brother, Chris.
But she was still a kid, and soon the tree house in their old backyard couldn't accommodate them both. So they walked. And walked. Until they made it into the big city. She didn't know any better when she was approached by an older man who offered to walk them back to the homeless shelter he lived at.
Turns out he didn't live there. She didn't see him again after they were dropped off in front of the drab building. Lauren was curious why no one bothered to question the two kids in tattered clothes who showed up at the doorstep. But now, at least they had an actual roof over their heads, and enough food to keep them alive each day.
But soon it wasn't enough. As years passed, they both grew older, and suddenly their bodies demanded more from them. So at 16, Lauren started looking for a job.
That's when she ran into him.
She'd been walking home one night from filling out numerous job applications around the city. Unfortunately, not many businesses wanted to hire a young girl who didn't have a phone number, or a high school education.
He didn't seem to mind, though. The same man who'd led them to a homeless shelter officered Lauren a job. She 'owed him.' His words, not hers.
So when faced with the choice, she chose the obvious option. And at 16, she was the youngest in his 'business,' and also the highest in demand.
Sex became muscle memory for her. After the first few times, everything became strictly business for her. Get there, do her 'job,' and get back home in one piece. She considered the bruises just a part of the job now. As she got older, more was demanded of her. And if she said no, it wouldn't make a difference. So she'd been forced to grow used to it. Even Chris knew to bring her an ice pack before she went to bed each night. Neither of them discussed her 'job.' It was the only way they survived.
That night had been especially painful, though. Lauren rarely tried to stop the men that 'bought' her for the night. But on this occasion she had. It hadn't ended well, and now she had to pull her hoodie far over her head and hang her hair in front of her face to hide the purple coloration around her eye, and the marks on her neck that resembled a pair of strong hands.
The bus ride slowly lulled her, and she hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep until a voice snapped her out of her slumber.
"Last stop of the night, little lady, you better be getting off now."
Lauren's head snapped up at the bitter tone of the bus driver's voice. She'd fallen asleep, shit. She glanced out the window and realized she had no idea where she was. She didn't know how long ago they'd passed her stop. This definitely didn't look like her side of town.
"I'll be forced to call the cops if you don't leave, kid. Scat."
Lauren anxiously grabbed her bag and glanced at the bus driver. One of the many downsides of her job was the way people treated her. She was nothing more than trash to them. If only they knew why she was doing what she did. She hated it even more than they did.
Without another word, her small figure made its way slowly down the bus steps, shivering in the cold winter air. It was dark, and she barley knew where she was. Her first concern was Chris, though. She needed to make sure he knew she was okay. Chris had a tendency to worry about her more than she thought he should.
So her feet carried her into the first building she saw. Lauren immediately felt out of place. It was obvious she didn't belong here. She swallowed her fear and approached the lady at the front desk.
"Excuse me, may I... uh, borrow your phone?" she asked nervously. The woman looked up and immediately did a double take when she saw the disheveled girl in front of her.
'You don't look like you live here, honey. Phone's for residents only," her tone was bitter.
Lauren bit her lip and scanned the room, wringing her hands together nervously. "I just... I-I missed my stop and I need to call for a ride. It'll only take two seconds, I promise."
"Listen, I don't know what you're up to, but if you're not out of this building within the next minute, I'm calling the cops. I'm not in the mood to be dealing with your kind."
Her kind.
Lauren nodded softly, glancing down at the telephone on the desk that sat a few inches away from her. She had nothing to lose.
"It's just... my brother is going to be worried if I don't get home and I just need to let him know I'm o-"
The woman picked up the phone and Lauren quickly took a few steps back when she started dialing a familiar number.
"Don't say I didn't warn y-" the woman was cut off by a pair of quick footsteps. Another figure made her way between Lauren and the desk and ripped the phone from the woman's hands, slamming it down on the receiver.
"She's with me, Barbara."
Lauren lifted her head when the stranger's melodic voice filled the tense air. All she saw was the back of her head, but the small girl had extremely long, wavy hair. Lauren envied it.
"Miss Cabello," the woman said bitterly, addressing the girl in front of her with annoyance. The girl ignored her, turning around and grabbing Lauren's arm. She flinched and looked up, meeting a pair of dark caramel eyes for the first time. She was beautiful.
"Sorry about her. She's just bitter," the other girl looked up at Lauren. She sent a warning glare to the woman at the desk and then tugged on Lauren's arm, practically dragging her towards the shiny elevator doors across the lobby. Lauren stumbled, quickly walking behind her.
"I-I-uh, what are you doing?" Lauren tripped over her words. Her hood slipped off her head and she quickly tugged it back on before anyone saw her.
"You can use my phone," the other girl replied. She let go of Lauren's arm after pulling her into the elevator.
"I'm Camila."
"L-Lauren."
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A/N: Okay, so I saw a suggestion for this ("Maybe the little bruises and cuts that show up on your body seemingly out of nowhere are actually little injuries that happened to your soulmate and you get the same marks on your skin as them.") and I couldn't keep myself from giving it a shot. I've seen this idea before and I've always wanted to write about it. I know, I know. I'm insane. I already have two running fics but I'm only a couple of chapters from Reasons to Go, Reasons to Stay (I've been working on it for a while, the chapters are in drafts and I post one each day). This will probably end up being a shorter series, but enough of you like it, I'll be sure to continue! Have a good day bbies, and lemme know what you think!
- Lena (@lenajfc on twitter, txrches on tumblr)