I'm so sorry I'm late!! I was away for the weekend but I'm back now and uploading as regular.
I hope you guys are enjoying Skintight so far! Please vote and share with your friends! You know I love reading all your comments ❤️
Love,
frangipanii
--------------------------------
Violet
My mother always loved the sound of birds in the morning. She loved hearing them chirp and sing — performing a ceremony to welcome her to a brand new day. That's what she'd claim they were doing. We used to go out to feed them together. We'd watch them peck away at their seeds as long as the weather would allow it. I liked seeing them play in the bird bath — dipping their heads into the water, spreading their wings to dry off their feathers. It was a strange idea to me — that these creatures that could soar and fly as high and far as they'd like would still come down to the ground to play in a puddle of water. I couldn't understand it. Did they enjoy it, or was it pure necessity?
I've killed a bird once. It wasn't on purpose, but it was my fault. I hit it with my car. Its poor body smacked against my windshield with its wings still open wide, a worm stuck in its beak. It didn't make a sound when it died. Its silence was deafening.
My father's death wasn't anything like that. It can't have been silent. It would have been loud and demanding. His wasn't an instant death. The windshield wasn't strong enough to stop him from flying through it. He stayed alive for hours after he hit it, spread out on the road like the bird on my car, except my dad was still breathing. He kept breathing long after that. He kept breathing as they scraped him off the road, and as they drove him to hospital. He didn't make it out, though. Not alive.
How could a bird willingly come down to this earth? There is no way they'd do it for their own enjoyment. It has to be out of necessity. They wouldn't risk if otherwise — the chance of violent death. They come down because they have to — purely for hydration. They need to. They can't live without it, just like my father couldn't live without the thrill of a rising speedometer. Or with it, apparently.
My mother was wrong. Birds are not joyous creatures. Their chirps are not pleasant. They are not a greeting. They're warnings.
The things we need — the things we would die without are also the ones that lead us to our death.
"You should stop that," Isaiah's voice interrupts my thoughts. "You're gonna draw blood."
"Hmm?" I turn towards him, leaving the birds in the back of my mind. Isaiah leans over the kitchen counter. He's eating what I assume to be his first of eleven meals of the day — a bowl of granola the size of our bathroom sink. It's already past midday, but I'm sure he'll manage to fit them all in.
"Is it another mosquito bite?" he shifts his eyes down to my arm. I suddenly become aware of my fingernails scratching at my skin, a burning sensation spreading into my flesh. I've scraped my upper arm raw. Any more and I'd be leaking onto the floor.
"Probably," I say. It must be. This area is full of bugs. They've been bothering me ever since we moved to this damn place. I don't know why. At first, I thought it was all the waterways, but there aren't any more here than there are back home. And yet, I've been stung more times in the past few months than I have in my entire lifetime. The climate must be different — more accommodating or appealing in some way. I don't see how. It doesn't feel any different. It just feels... full; full and heavy — suffocating. Even more so than it does back home.
"Please tell me one of you idiots made breakfast," a desperate Dani walks into the kitchen, her hair and makeup already done. She's fully dressed and ready to go.
"You betcha," Isaiah lifts his bowl into the air.
"That's not breakfast. That's cardboard," she pulls the freezer open. "I could've sworn we still had a batch of waffles."
"We did," I tell her. "You ate them last night."
"And neither of you stopped me?" she complains.
"I tried."
Just the smell of those rip-off pancakes makes me gag. I don't know why everyone loves them so much. My family basically shunned me for not liking them. It may as well be illegal in our family. I've 'betrayed the bloodline' according to my aunt.
Dani and I must have been switched at birth. I know it's impossible, but if I didn't know any better, I would've sworn it was the truth. If it weren't for our different skin tones, she'd blend in perfectly.
Dani is the smartest person I know. She's not just book-smart; she's smart in every possible way. She's emotionally intelligent and thinks critically about every step she takes. She's analytical, pragmatic, and rational — everything you need to be a respectable member of the family. Those characteristics can be attributed to her father, my Uncle Kaleem, but questions arise when it comes to her cooking skills.
My family has an unwavering, inter-generational love for food. Sweet, sour, or savoury... we eat it all, regardless of the time of day. My grandfather was a pastry chef. He owned a series of dessert bars, spread across the state. He's known for his delicious, syrupy waffles that I can't stand the smell of. The recipe was passed down to my parents, who taught it to my siblings and me as kids. That's how Dani and Isaiah learnt, too.
Even if Dani and I weren't switched at birth, it's hard to believe we aren't siblings. We're not even cousins technically, or related at all. Our parents were best friends. They're fuck buddies now, apparently. They deny it, but why else would they be living together?
"You need to get ready, Vi," Dani grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl. "We're leaving in ten minutes."
"Ugh," I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "We're actually doing that?"
"We aren't. You are," she corrects. "And you're not going to be late."
"But do I actually have to go? Can't I just lie and say I went?"
"Nope. Your trainer has to report your attendance to your therapist."
"Ridiculous," I scoff. They treat me like a rabid dog — like I need constant supervision. I understand having to go to therapy. It's court-ordered. If I didn't agree to therapy, I'd be going to prison. But I didn't think that meant my therapist could force me to do all this other shit Therapy boxing, is what they call it, but it's really just a covert way of saying anger management. As if I need it. Me, instead of him. Fucking bullshit.
"Dad's going to be pissed if you bail," Isaiah points out. "And he's coming for dinner tonight."
I groan out in frustration. "Don't remind me."
"He's already pissed you skipped counselling last week."
"So, let him be pissed."
"Vi..."
"What? It's not like he's going to do anything about it."
"Except move in here and drive you around himself."
"He's not actually going to do that."
"Are you sure about that? Because he already moved across the country once to look after your ass, so I don't doubt that he'd do it again."
I roll my eyes. I don't wanna deal with this. I don't wanna talk about it or think about it. I don't wanna go to therapy and I definitely don't wanna go to dumb-ass anger management. I'm done being here, and if I want to make it through the morning without pissing Dani and Issy off, I have to get going. I've pissed them off enough.
I shouldn't have bothered showering this morning. I woke up with a bunch of dirt in my hair — like I'd stuck my head in a bush or something. It was gross. I can barely remember anything that happened last night, and that's definitely a good thing. My head was pounding when I woke up. I could barely move. I probably wouldn't have if it didn't stink of puke. My stomach contents was sitting in a bucket on my nightstand. The smell alone almost made me vom again. I made sure to take an anti-nausea tablet when I took my handful of Tylenol.
Actually, it doesn't fucking matter that I showered. It's not like I'm going to be sweating at the gym. I won't even be putting any effort in. The bare minimum is all they'll get from me. What do they expect — me to show up there and start beating shit up? Ridiculous. I don't even want to be there.
My room is a complete mess — a direct contrast to the rest of the house. The cleaner doesn't enter our rooms. My clothes are strewn across the floor, piled up in corners and over my chair. There's a bunch of random shit on my desk. My laptop is amongst it, but I can barely see it. It's hidden beneath a stack of dirty dishes, leftover weed baggies and an old bong. I pick it up — the bong, not the laptop. I don't know why I stopped using this. It's in perfectly good shape if you look past the mildew. I could probably bring it back to working condition if I wanted to, but I'm self-aware enough to know I won't.
I can't be fucked cleaning it. I won't be needing my laptop anytime soon, either, so it can keep living there. I barely ever bring my shit to campus. I never take notes in class. I just rely on my working memory. It's not like we'll be discussing anything important. Unless you think the different techniques of oil painting are important. And if I need to do some sketches, I'll steal paper from the supply room. It's all fucking pointless anyway. I won't make it to graduation. I don't plan on making it through the year.
I drop my sweatpants to the floor and replace them with a pair of black tights. They aren't clean, but they don't smell. That's what matters. I pull a cropped hoodie over my head and slip into a pair of sneakers. My hair is still wet from my shower but I pull it up into a high ponytail anyway. I glance in the mirror. I look like fucking shit. My cheeks are red with acne scars, and the bags under my eyes look ten times worse without my brown hair hiding them. There's a bruise on my jaw, too. I run a thin layer of concealer over them. It doesn't cover it, but it does make it a lot less obvious. Dani and Isaiah can talk shit all they want, but they can't deny that I need the least time to get ready — that is, if you don't count all the extra time I spend complaining about having to get ready in the first place.
The gym Dani takes me to does not look like a gym. It looks like a garage, or maybe a small warehouse. But not a gym. It's not even in Nassau County. It's in Queens. We didn't get to choose where it was. My therapist did. And it looks like she chose the cheapest deal she could get.
It's a standalone building on what looks like the industrial side of town. It's surrounded by a chain-link fence with just a small entrance to the concrete parking out front. The few cars in the lot look just as dilapidated as the building itself. Piles of garbage lean against the walls, the brown bricks littered with graffiti. The metal shutter door is rolled up, revealing the inside of the gym. It doesn't look like much. There's a makeshift boxing ring at the front and a row of dumbbells in the back. It looks like there's a second floor, though, so that must be where the other equipment is. That doesn't make it any better, though. It still looks dodgy as fuck. Maybe this is where I'll finally meet my death — right here on the outskirts of Queens.
"I can't believe they're making me do this," I say. "It's such bullshit. They think I can't control my anger so they're making me beat stuff up? It doesn't make any sense."
"It's supposed to be therapeutic," Dani responds. "You might enjoy it."
"I doubt it."
"Hey, I'm just glad I got you here. That's the first step. Now you just need to go inside."
"Dani, come on," I turn to her for one last attempt. "I don't need this."
"I know, but you just gotta do it."
"I don't wanna..." I complain. "I don't wanna do this."
"I know, babe. But you gotta."
"I don't—."
"Come on," she nods forward. "You've gotta get this over with."
I let out a deep sigh, lifting my hand onto the door handle. I don't push it open, though. I can't muster up the courage yet. I glance at Dani one last time, begging her to get me out of this, but she won't budge.
I finally manage to open the door, but a loud ding pulls me back in. I look down at my phone, a sick sensation filling up my gut. Jack's name lights up the screen. 6 missed calls, 23 text messages. Fucking dick. I flip it over, abandoning the device in the car as I step out into the open air.