~Anabelle's POV~
Fluttering my eyelids open the next morning, I discover that Demi's grip on me slacked significantly throughout the night. Her face is peaceful, her pink lips slightly parted as she breathes. Being careful not to disturb her, I slip out from underneath the blanket, making my way to the attached bathroom. When I try to turn the knob, it clicks and rattles. Locked. But no light is shining through the gap between the bottom of the door and the hardwood floor. Demi- possibly Wilmer?-must've locked it from the outside to prevent me from purging in the middle of night. On a whim, I stand on the tips of my toes and trail my fingertips along the top edge of the door frame in search of a key. No such luck. Begrudgedly, I exit the bedroom.
Creeping past Brianna sitting at the dining room table and Wilmer in the kitchen, I swiftly close myself in the upstairs bathroom. Lifting up the toilet lid, I drop to my knees and shove two fingers down my throat until I gag. My eyes water as I force myself to throw up. From the corner of my eye, I notice shuffling from the doorway. I curse myself for forgetting to lock the door. I crane my neck upwards to find a horrified Rebecca.
"Anabelle," she whispers, entering the room and closing the door behind her.
"What?" My voice is hoarse.
I clear my throat, wincing at the burning sensation.
"Why?"
Her chin trembles. In the silence, I can hear her teeth clattering as she tries not to cry.
"Because I'm fat," I shrug. "Isn't the answer obvious?"
Her eyes close as two tears trail down her cheeks, leaving behind red tracks.
"Now, can you leave?" I rudely question. "I'm not done here," I explain when she furrows her eyebrows.
"Yes, you-Anabelle, stop!" She shoves me away from the toilet as I try to expel even more from my stomach, and I land on my back.
"Leave me alone, Rebecca!" I scream, not caring if anyone hears me.
"Why?" she charges right back, reminding me of her mother in a way. "So you can continue on with slowly killing yourself?"
"Yes! That's exactly what I plan to do."
She's obviously taken aback, although her expression still remains furious.
"Do you honestly want to die, or do you just want the pain to end?" she calmly inquires.
"Girls," Wilmer knocks on the door. "Everything okay?" Just by his tone, I can tell that he knows that everything isn't okay.
"We'll be out in a minute, dad," Rebecca saves. "I'm telling mom," she quietly hisses.
"Fine," I chuckle, lacking humor. "She already knows."
"Does she know that you're throwing up blood like that?" She gestures to the toilet bowl where, inside, is nothing but a sea of red.
I hesitate, nibbling on my bottom lip, not knowing the answer.
"I can at least tell her that."
"No, Becca!"
"And why not?"
"She treats me as if I'm her own daughter, therefore; this will kill her."
"Metaphorically speaking, yes, she would be hurt, but you, you, Anabelle, could literally die from what you're doing to yourself."
"I don't want her to judge me," I try, knowing that Demi would never do such a thing. "Or any of you, for that matter."
"To some point, Anabelle, genetics plays a huge part in this. Trust me, you worrying over us judging you is just stupid."
"What does genetics have to do with anything?"
"Mom went through the same stuff," she explains, examining her lime green nails.
"So?"
"It's in your genes."
"Huh? Did you hit your head or something?"
"No-," she stops, her eyes widening slightly. "I-I mean," she stammers, opening the bathroom door. "Mom!"
She runs. I hastily flush the toilet, rinse my mouth out, and pop a stick of chewing gum past my lips before sprinting after her.
"Mom!"
I find everybody in the kitchen wearing expressions of confusion and even worry.
"Rebecca, shut up!" I demand, approaching her as she shakes her head.
"Anabelle-," I wrap my arms around her neck from behind, clamping one hand against her mouth, the other held at the base of her neck.
"Brianna, go play in your room, okay?" Demi-her tone fakely sweet-directs.
The little girl nods, cleaning her mess of doodle-filled computer paper, bright colored markers, and glitter glue pens from the table, before scurrying towards the stairs.
"Daddy," she calls out over her shoulder from the base of the staircase.
"Si, princesa?"
There's a tiny pause as Bri, I'm assuming, tries to decipher the Spanish.
"Can we play princesa later?"
She sounds more like a white rich girl trying to speak a foreign language than Demi does, but, then again, Bri is only seven; Demi's just a lost cause.
"Ask your mom."
"But I want you to play," she persists in a whiny tone.
"Anabelle will play with you later," he shoots me a pleading expression, causing me to mentally chuckle.
"Your dad's right, Bri," I reluctantly agree. "I'll play princess with you."
"Okay," she happily chirps.
"Anabelle, let go of her," Demi commands once Bri has retreated to her room, and I hesitantly comply. "Now, can one of you please explain to me what the hell is going on? You two are acting like you're going to kill each other."
"So, in other words, we're acting like normal sisters, right?" I arch an eyebrow, and she glares at me.
"Explain."
Rebecca and I glance at each other. I tear my eyes away from hers, directing my gaze to the floor.
"Rebecca found me, um," I bite down on my lower lip. "I can't do this," Shaking my head, I turn for the stairs, but a hand grips my wrists and halts me.
I trail my eyes past the hand that holds me to find Rebecca's face. Her eyes are sad.
"She found me throwing up," I blurt out. "There. Happy?" I yank my arm away from her but make no further effort to try to escape.
"Blood," Bec adds. "I found you throwing up blood."
"Anabelle," Demi interjects, motioning for me to follow her, which I meekly do.
She leads us to the couch in the living room, me sitting across from her.
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Which part?" I whisper, ashamed.
"All of it."
I nervously lick my lips.
"I've been, uh," I exhale shakily, heavily. "I've been cutting myself since I was eight, and I've been starving and purging since I was nine," I direct my gaze downwards, toying with my thumbs.
"Five years," she whispers, as if afraid that her voice is going to crack. "No wonder you're throwing up blood. And you've been self-harming for six?"
I nod mutely, even though her question is rhetorical.
"Aren't you tired of it?"
I raise my head to meet her broken-hearted gaze.
You did that.
I mutely nod again.
"I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired."
She inhales sharply, and I can see her eyes becoming glassy.
"I want to stop," my words come out shaky, foreign-sounding, but they surprisingly ring true. "I really do want to stop, but I don't know how. It's nothing but a routine now," I choke back a sob as tears slide down my cheeks. "God, mom, cutting doesn't even bring me relief anymore; it just hurts.".
"Baby-girl," she breathes, wrapping her arms around me, bringing me closer to her. "I'll help you get better. I swear on my life that I'll help you get better."
Suddenly, I start laughing through my tears. She releases me, holding my shoulders at arms length, peering at me with a perplexed expression.
"I just called you 'mom'," I explain, grinning without the faintest clue as to why.
"It's about damn time," she smirks, her smirk soon turning into a grin, and I chuckle and roll my eyes.
~
"Do you hate me now?" I wonder, hovering in her doorway.
Rebecca mutely shakes her head, sitting on her bed with her back facing me and her legs crossed.
"Are you ashamed of me?"
Another mute head shake.
"Why aren't you talking to me then?"
There's a long pause. She doesn't move. I fear that she really isn't going to speak to me, that, despite her negative answers, she might possibly hate me, might possibly be ashamed of me.
"I just don't understand why," she finally responds, startling me.
"Why what?"
"Why you and mom..." she trails off, shaking her head. "Why ya'll would do that to yourselves."
I toy with my fingers as my head droops, my gaze lowering to her purple carpet.
"Have you ever asked your mom-,"
"No," she cuts me off, and I hear her shuffle on her bed. "I mean, sure I can watch videos and documentaries and interviews online, but what would she tell me, her own daughter? Would she be candid? Somewhat disclosed? Would she lie to me without batting an eyelash? Do I even want her to tell me everything?" She sighs heavily.
"What about her memoir?" I look up, seeing that she has turned around to face me.
"Even that isn't accurate," she snorts.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Nothing," she mutters. "Forget it."
"No."
"Well, I'm not telling you."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a family matter," she scoffs, but her eyes soon widen. "Anabelle-,"
"No. That's okay," I force a smile, even though my heart feels like it's shattering; I swallow the thickness of oncoming tears. "I'm just the adopted, fucked-up lunatic, right?" I sadly chuckle, sniffling as my tears threaten to spill.
She vigorously shakes her head.
"No, Anabelle, that's not what I meant."
"But isn't it? To some extent? It's ironic considering that I, during a slip of my tongue, called Demi 'mom', yet I still will never fully be a part of this family," her facial expression is one of surprise, possibly shock, probably at the fact that I actually, finally acknowledged as a mother figure. "I'm just a burden," I whisper more to myself as the voices in my head quickly agree.
"Anabelle, no, you're not."
She's lying. She's just trying to be polite so she doesn't get in trouble with her parents. You are a burden.
"I'll be right back," I mumble.
I find Demi in the kitchen preparing breakfast with Wilmer.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, Anabelle?" She carefully drops a slice of disgusting bacon in a pan before turning towards me.
"Do you think that I'm worth recovery?"
To my surprise, she doesn't seem taken aback by my answer; instead, it seems as if she was expecting this question to be asked sooner or later.
"I think that you're worth recovery, but are they telling you different?" She refers to my inner demons.
I flicker my gaze away and nod.
Why would you tell her that? We're only trying to help you! You're ruining everything! No wonder you're such a pathetic failure.
"Anabelle," Demi approaches me. "You're spacing out. What are they telling you?"
Don't you dare tell her. If you keep this up, you'll be shipped off straight to a treatment center. You'll get fat, fatter than you already are. Your nightmares and flashbacks will only get worse. And Demi will be throwing her money away on some treatment that you don't even need. You're not sick enough for treatment. You're not skinny enough for treatment. Hell, you're not even skinny. But you are a burden. Look at how tired Demi seems now. That's because of you. You're ruining her life, the lives of her family.
"Nothing," I shake my head, forcing another smile. "I'm going to go play princess with Bri like I promised her."
"Are you sure you're okay?" She calls after me as I'm climbing the stairs.
"I'm fine," I falsely reassure, hurrying up the remainder of the stairs before she can question me further.
"Bri," I repeatedly tap my knuckles against her slightly open door.
She looks up from her circle of various dolls.
"Do you still want to play princess?"
She shakes her head.
"I only wanted to take silly pictures of daddy in a tutu."
I laugh.
"Have you done that before?"
She nods, explaining that Rebecca is the one who took the pictures and has them saved on her phone. I watch silently for a few moments as she plays with her dolls, chattering away as if they're actually animate. Smiling, I walk over the her and peck her forehead.
"I love you, Bri."
"Love you, too, Bells-Bells," she grins, not looking up from her dolls.
I wipe my tearful eyes as I retreat to my bedroom. With the door locked, I sit on my bed contemplating my options.
You're a burden.
"Anabelle," Rebecca knocks on my door. "Can I come in, please?"
When I don't respond, she twists the doorknob.
"Anabelle," she groans. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean it."
I roll my eyes, not believing her.
You're a burden. You cause this family so much stress and turmoil.
Walking over to my desk, I grab a piece of lined paper and a ink pen.
I'm sorry.
I slide the piece of paper underneath my door. She picks it up.
"What are you sorry for?" She inquires aloud, returning the piece of paper to me.
For everything.
I slide the paper back to her, then rise from my crouching position and rummage through my closet, finding the bottle of vodka and leaving the bag of cocaine.
"Anabelle, please, just let me in," Becca continues to plead, sounding discouraged.
"I refuse to keep burdening you and your family," I open the bottle and quickly down three mouthfuls, choking at the burning sensation.
"You're not a burden!" She loudly insists, and I slightly worry that Demi might hear, but that worry soon vanishes as I enter my bathroom.
You are a burden, Anabelle. Free them of at least one burden. Allow yourself to finally be happy, to finally be free.
I smash the glass bottle against the tiled bathroom floor.
"Anabelle, what was that?" Becca's tone is now worried, panicked.
I can hear footsteps running up the stairs.
My eyes quickly skim over the glass shards. Avoiding slicing my fingers, which is ironic considering my intentions, I carry the piece of glass to my bed, sitting so that my legs dangle off of the side, and I face the door.
"Rebecca, what's going on? What was that crash?" Demi hurriedly questions.
"I don't know!" Rebecca sounds like she's almost to the point of sobbing. "It came from Anabelle's room, and she won't open the door."
"Anabelle," Demi twists the knob. "Please, baby-girl, open the door. Don't do anything that you'll regret."
Oh, but I won't regret this.
I slice the tender flesh of my left wrist six times horizontally, spacing the cuts out so much that the sixth cut is made in the crook of my elbow. Even though I enjoy the burning pain to some extent, I cry out as the alcohol from the glass seeps into my wounds. I repeat the process on my other arm.
"Damnit, Wilmer, go get the key!" Demi nearly screams, my door rattling as she seemingly tries to break it down.
She sounds like she's sobbing, drowning on her own tears.
I watch as drops of crimson pucker to the surface of each cut. The drops trickle down my arms, colliding with one another, racing down my tan skin and spidering outwards as they reach my palms. Red drips off of my fingertips, staining my bedsheet and splattering against my white carpet.
As I hear a key being hastily placed in the lock, I begin to violently slash at my arms, cutting both horizontally and vertically. My clothes are rapidly staining red. My arms seem to be clad with red sleeves. My hands are so slick with my own blood that I drop the glass shard as Demi runs towards me. I lunge for the floor, for the piece of glass. It pierces my skin, embedding itself into my palm. I gasp.
Demi lifts me up. Through heavy-lidded eyes, I can see her looking towards my bathroom and cursing. I can hear Wilmer talking to a 911 operator. As Demi rushes me out of my bedroom, I notice both Bri and Bec standing, pale-faced, shocked, horrified, crying.
You better hope and pray that you don't survive this because if you do, they'll all hate you, even more so than they do now, for the rest of your miserable, pathetic existence.
I zone out for seconds at a time.
I'm in the bathroom, in the bathtub, still wearing my blood soaked pajamas.
I can hear the showerhead spurt to life, can soon feel the warm water spraying across my face.
The warm water splashes onto my arms and enters my cuts, burning, stinging.
The white porcelain of the tub now seems to be out of a horror movie, red streaking the sides and tinging the water that travels down the drain.
"Please, baby-girl, please stay awake," Demi begs as another round of water hits my face.
She's trying to keep you awake. Fight it, Anabelle. Fight it so that you can be free, so that you can be happy.
I faintly smile at the idea of finally being happy, of finally being free.
Tears stream down Demi's cheeks, her face flushed, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. I place a limp, bloodied hand on her cheek.
"I'm sorry, mom," my voice is a raspy whisper, extremely weak. "I'm so so sorry."
"You need to fight, Anabelle," she whimpers.
I try to shake my head, but it hurts too much to do so.
"I'm tired of fighting."
I can hear the approaching sirens, can hear car doors being slammed shut.
"I love you, mom."
With a weak smile, I allow my eyes to roll back and for the darkness to consume me.
Now, you're finally happy, you're finally free.