A/N
This chapter is going to be about other character's as well as Addie. I will have chapters like this every now and then, just so you can understand more about the background characters. And also so you understand the meaning of the title of this story.
Although Addie is the main character, I also think it's important to expand on other characters.
This chapter will be a bit shorter, but the rest of the chapters are going to be much longer from now on. But I just needed to say because I KNOW these chapters might seem pointless but there is a reason behind every POV or flashback that I do. I also know you're all waiting for Kai's POV. I promise that is coming up soon.
Also just wanted to say that the next chapter is pretty crazy. I have BIG things planned!!!
This is also a quick TW (I know I should have said that before) this story does contain references to sensitive topics for example; drug use, panic attacks, violence, ED's, self harm, both physical and mental abuse, as well as mentions of sexual assault.
With that in mind, if you don't feel comfortable reading on then I totally understand. I will try my best to mention which chapters these particular topics come up in, but this is just an overall disclaimer.
(I also have no idea how to right a TW so I'm so sorry)
??? POV:
Before I could do anything else, my legs just started moving. I just ran.
I can't breathe; every breath is shallow and suffocating. It hurts, everything hurts. I need it to stop. The shaking, the unbearable ache in my chest.
I clutch my bag tightly, trying to anchor myself in reality. But my thoughts are spinning out of control, and I can't stop the flood of fears.
My mind is a mess of jumbled thoughts and self-doubt, and I feel like I'm drowning in my own terror.
I'm completely lost inside my head. All I know is that, my head is a very dark place.
Like I'm screaming, but no one can hear.
I can't let myself cry, not now. But my vision blurs as tears threaten to spill over. I bite my lip hard, trying to hold back the sobs that are building up inside me. I'm so scared, so afraid.
My body trembles with fear as I reach the bathrooms, seeking refuge in the small space. I lock myself in one of the stalls, leaning against the cold metal, trying to steady my breathing. But it's no use; the panic tightens its grip on my chest, and it's like all the oxygen had been sucked away.
Everything feels like it's closing in on me, the walls of the stall closing in, suffocating me. I feel trapped, trapped in my own mind. Trapped by them. By him.
I force myself out of the stall, and splash cold water on my face.
I don't look in the mirror. I don't even bother. I know what I see in it won't be pleasant.
But I can't stay in the bathroom forever, I know that. But I'd rather stay here forever, than have to go back. Anywhere else.
And most of all. I can't go home. Back to that house. To those people.
They're going to kill me.
He's going to kill me when he finds out.
My hands tremble as I clutch the sink, trying to ground myself. And at this point, I would do anything. Anything to relax. To make it all go away.
So when I go home, and everything goes to shit, I won't feel a damn thing.
I'm messed up. I'm so messed up. I always knew that.
As much as I tell myself that I was just ruined. Deep down, I think I always knew. I'm just as messed up as my brother. My psychotic, fucked up brother.
It's all his fault.
Because he left. Because he never cared enough to come back, or check on me.
To see who he left me with.
Sometimes I doubted if my brother ever loved me at all. If he was even capable of it.
No matter how perfect the situation might have looked from the outside. No one understood just how ugly it could get on the inside.
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??? POV:
I stand before the mirror, my eyes scanning my reflection at all angles. I don't know how long I spend doing this. And frankly, I don't even want to know.
Whether it's just staring in the mirror at myself, trying to convince myself that there's nothing wrong. Or taking my phone and recording myself. From the back, the front, the side. Every possible angle I could think of
But the feeling intensified. The sickening feeling deep in my stomach. Because looking at myself again. I just feel dirty.
In my world, perfection is demanded, and every flaw, real or perceived, feels like a sharp dagger piercing my soul. Because I have to be like her. My mother.
At home, life is a delicate dance of pleasing her, my mother. She treats me like a fragile doll. Something to be displayed and admired, yet never truly understood.
My mother, on the surface, is beautiful - a vision of elegance and grace. Complete and utter perfection. But appearances deceive. And that's exactly what my mother is. A deception. A cover up to her ugly interior. And that's exactly what I am too.
Natalie has always been a master of people-pleasing. It was a way for her to maintain that illusion of perfection. To the people who were naïve enough to fall for it. Everyone adores her, I figured that out the second I was old enough to speak.
But I always knew the truth. The truth to her. The foolish facade she puts on? I saw through it years ago. And unlike others who were blinded by her, I listened. I listened and I observed.
My mother. My mother should have been my role model. The person I looked up to. But for me, it was the very opposite. I didn't. I couldn't. The idea was foreign to me. Sickening.
But she was still my mother. My blood. And as much as I would love to say that I hate her. She had already strung me up. And I was in far too deep already.
As I gaze at my reflection, the self-loathing intensifies. My eyes linger on every perceived flaw - the imperfections in my skin, the curves that aren't quite right. The reflection before me becomes a distorted image of my self-worth, and I can't bear to look any longer.
Suddenly, the door to my room creaks open, and my mother strides in, her presence suffocating. I freeze, feeling vulnerable under her scrutinising gaze. "Is that a new dress?" she inquires, her voice saccharine sweet. My head shakes involuntarily, but her keen eye catches every nuance.
"I've never seen you in this one," she remarks, and a lump forms in my throat. I quickly respond, trying to sound casual, "I got it a few years ago. Managed to fit in it." It's a lie, of course.
I bought this dress a very, very long time ago. And the things I had done to fit in it hurt to say out loud.
Her response is a dismissive hum, but the look on her face betrays her true thoughts. My stomach churns with anxiety, and I force myself to tear my gaze away from the mirror and meet her eyes. "You don't like the dress?" I ask hesitantly, my heart pounding in my chest.
My mother sits down on my bed, her graceful movements contrasting with the turmoil I feel inside. "It's not the dress," she says with a sigh, and my throat tightens further.
I don't think I can handle her rejection again. It frightened me beyond anything.
"What is it then?" I muster the courage to inquire, desperation tainting my voice. Her response terrifies me, but I need to know. I need to understand what I'm doing wrong, how I'm failing her.
"It's you, darling" she says, her words slicing through my heart like a razor "Have you been eating more carbs lately?" she asks.
I'm not sure if I'm still breathing.
My mother's words pierced through me, but what hurt the most was knowing that I hadn't been eating carbs—or much of anything, for that matter.
No matter how much I restricted my diet or how much weight I lost, it was never enough.
And the shame floods my cheeks with crimson hues. It's a simple question, but beneath its innocent facade lies a minefield of judgment and disapproval.
I choose to remain silent, unable to muster the courage to defend myself. What could I say anyway? I'm trapped in a world where my worth is defined by my ability to conform to her standards of perfection. Any protest from me would be futile, and I've learned to keep my pain buried deep within.
"I thought I told you to cut those out from your diet," she continues, her voice tight with frustration. My gaze drops to the floor as I feel the weight of her disappointment crushing my spirit. Every word she speaks is like another cut to my self-esteem.
As I stand there, feeling exposed and vulnerable, I muster the strength to reply, "I haven't been eating carbs, mother." My voice wavers slightly, betraying the pain and fear that I had become so adept at hiding.
Her stern gaze remains fixed on me, and I could see the disappointment in her eyes. It was as if she could see right through my facade, straight to the truth I desperately tried to conceal. No amount of weight loss, dieting, or self-denial could win her approval. I was drowning in my own pursuit of perfection, and she was the anchor pulling me under.
"We're having a dinner. Your father told me to tell you. The Steele's are coming over," she informs me, shifting the topic as if the previous conversation never happened.
"Remember what I told you? You know what you have to do?" she questions, her eyes narrowing. I simply nod.
The demands were crystal clear: smile, be charming, be perfect.
Be fake.
"Yes, mother," I reply, my voice almost a whisper.
"Make sure to wear a properly fitted dress for tonight," she adds before turning to leave, leaving me alone with my torment. As the door closed behind her, I sank to my knees, the tears finally streaming down my face.
I wanted to scream in her face and demand her to apologise. For all she's done to me. To my sister. I wanted to curse her for letting what happened, happen.
For sparking such a fear within me. For being the reason I double lock the door to my room at night. Why I get so scared whenever my mother brings other men to the house.
The constant disgust that churns in my stomach whenever I look too hard at my body. But also the need to keep looking.
My body is withering away slowly, I know that. Trapped in the endless cycle of self- destruction.
But that was exactly what my mother wanted. But she would never see me like this ever again. Scared and broken. She would see the same mask I put on for everyone else.
The bitch. The unhinged. The bitter.
That's what everyone else saw. That's what all my schools saw. But it's also what the school and the rest of this town was filled with. Fake bitches.
At least I'm self-aware. I know exactly what I am.
Because people looked but never really saw. Because if they really bothered or cared at all, they would have noticed the truth behind the face of makeup and bitchy attitude.
It's a shame this town is also filled with fools.
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