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cold-ugly · 4 years

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🥀 𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖉 & 𝖚𝖌𝖑𝖞 chapter 2

When the counsellor called my name, to stand up was a tedious endeavor. I tried not to let my soul slip out of my body, while white haze obscured my vision. Thumping in my chest, my anxious heart held its breath, as he gestured for me to follow him. I pursued him blindly. He closed the door behind me, and I took a seat on the cushioned chair. "Sorry to pull you out of class," he began, "how are we feeling today?" My blood boiled under my skin at his cautious tone, as if I were a pane of glass, and I would shatter if he spoke to me as an equal. I replied plainly, "I was in the middle of a test, but it's okay."

"I'm sorry about that, but let's be truthful; you know why you're here." I fidgeted with the jacket's zipper, silent. "Why do you think that is, Ren?" he urged. Sheepishly, I asked "Is this because of my algebra grade?" He folded his hands on top of the desk. "Actually, you brought all your grades up recently. That's great, keep up the good work. Today, we're here to talk about some recurring harmful behaviors your teachers have noticed," he stared through me, searing holes into my patience. Recurring harmful behaviors sure is a nice way to say self-mutilation. "I'm working on my nail biting," I dodged the implication of self harm. He sighed, and leaned forward a bit. "Ren, c'mon. This is about the cutting."

I offered no response. He pleaded, "Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?" If only I could figure that out... "I don't cut," I denied the allegation. "Then you won't mind showing me your arm," he coaxed. I rolled my eyes, and fought to push up the snug sleeve of my right arm, exposing unmarred skin. He inspected my arm, appearing simultaneously satisfied and disappointed. As I tugged at the sleeve, which remained stuck at my elbow, he watched. I bet he's thinking, 'look at this gross cow's fat arm.' He leaned back in his swivel chair, and declared, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, if you promise me you aren't hiding any cuts somewhere else."

"I'm not, I promise," I feigned an innocent voice, "I learned my lesson last time, remember? My mom got so angry." He smiled, and said "Well, I'm just glad you're okay. Sorry again about your test," he began scribbling onto a sticky note. "If you need to talk, just give this to your teacher, and come see me," he gave me the tiny pink paper. Great, a special snowflake VIP ticket to the see counsellor. "Thanks."

I returned to class hurriedly, beaming with pride. Today, I achieved the ultimate deceit. As I returned to my seat, I was relieved to notice that a couple of students were still working on the test. My stomach growled amongst the rustling of papers. I sipped my water while I worked on the last questions, finishing just as the bell rang. I tucked the pink sticky note into my textbook, and filed out the door.

As I waded through the halls, I strained to catch a glimpse of half-lavender hair, disappointed when I arrived at my locker to no avail. I switched out my textbooks, and lingered to check my phone. A text from mom -- “If you don’t clean your room tonight, I’m taking your laptop!!!!” accompanied with plenty of angry emojis. I sighed and went to class. A dull famished ache in my stomach startled me, like I’d swallowed a stone. I should be used to this by now. Almost halfway excited for this class, I laid my notebook out on the desk, and examined yesterday’s notes. My teacher, Mr. Brooks, stood at the board drawing an outline of the day's to-do list. After the other six students took their seats and the bell rang, Mr. Brooks perched himself on a stool at the front of the class. He began, "You all did great work on last week’s publication. Today, you’ll choose the topic for your next article, and of course with the holidays coming, I’d like someone to cover Thanksgiving. Who’s up for it?”

No one raised a hand. I sipped my water.

Pleading with his eyes, he stared at each of the few students intensely. “No one? Seriously? How about, um, I don’t know…” he made eye contact with me; I averted my gaze to my hands that lay fidgeting on the desk. “How about Ren?” he commanded. “Okay,” I complied, and turned to a new sheet in my notebook. “Fantastic,” he scribbled my name horridly underneath my given article in blue marker, that smudged as he slurred the three letters. I would rather write an article about pinecones.

As the other students were assigned their articles, I retrieved a laptop from the class set, and opened a fresh blank document after logging in. I stared at the white screen, annoyed. I would seriously rather write about some fucking pine cones right now. I opened another tab and searched for Thanksgiving articles to inspire me, and combed through pages of recipes, and recipes. Unhelpful. I took out homework for other classes that had been neglected, and finished them as my classmates produced their articles. Near the end of class, Mr. Brooks passed out the QR codes for the new publication, ten for each student to give to friends, or tape on walls. I’ll be doing a lot of taping on walls.

My peers packed up their books and threw their backpacks over their shoulders as the lunchtime announcements droned over the intercom. After the bell rang, I merged into the hall on my way to finish the test from my first class. I examined every person I passed, hoping for elusive half-lavender hair. Disappointed again. I returned to my teacher, received the test, and took my seat. I exerted my knowledge to its fullest extent in a determined effort to get this stupid thing over with. Finally, once I had returned the completed test to my teacher, I headed towards the library. I stopped by the vending machine on the way, and injected a handful of quarters into the slot, in return for a cold gatorade zero, and a crisp diet coke. With my treats, I went into the sparsely populated library, and claimed an empty table by the window.

I twisted the cap of the coke open with a satisfyingly carbonated sssstt. In the silent library, the growl of my stomach seemed to echo. I hastened to quiet my hunger with a fizzy gulp of zero-calorie chemicals. Relieved to have all my homework finished for once, I plugged in my headphones, and gazed out the window to watch the cows meandering in their pasture across the road, snuggling into the cozy yellow jacket. Nearly a few minutes of false peace elapsed before I realized…

I shouldn’t just be sitting here.

I should be doing something.

I dashed out of the library and passed faceless people in the halls as I approached my destination. I pushed through the double doors, crossed through the gym, and hustled up the narrow stairwell. I dropped off my backpack on the bleachers, and briskly paced the track. With my favorite music in my ears, I looped the track countlessly. My heart sprinted. I caught myself before a fall each time my knee buckled, and glanced around anxiously, hoping no one saw. I labored the track until the bell rang, and finally collapsed onto the bleachers in gasps. I sipped my water, then stood up, and tried not to wobble as I pushed myself towards the next class.

As I turned in my homework to its folder, my teacher shot me a thumbs-up. I returned an awkward smile, and hurried to my desk. I think the last time I got a thumbs-up from an adult was in kindergarten. As the assignment was given, I scowled about that irritating thumbs-up. I endured the remainder of the class, miffed about that stupid fucking thumbs-up, sipping my water as I tried to hide my annoyance. While the teacher was distracted by his phone, I checked mine to see no texts.

Minutes before the bell would ring, the students apprehensively zipped up their coats and put on their backpacks. The afternoon announcements were stifled by the students’ excited chatter. I plugged in my headphones and put on my gloves. My classmates poured into the hall and towards the front doors. I lingered by my class a moment to let the herd thin out before I dared venture into the hall. Once outside, I braced against the cold and searched for my bus. I realized I left all my juice-soaked clothes in my locker, but didn’t have enough time to go back for them. Damn it. For an instant, out of the corner of my eye…

A glimpse of half-lavender.

I propelled myself towards my fixation. As I caught up to her, she turned to me, and beamed a perfect smile. “How’d it go?” she urged. “It worked,” I grinned, “he didn’t even check the arm I cut!” She bounced and congratulated me. “Thank you so much, you have no idea how much that helped me,” as I began to slip off her jacket, she interrupted with a hand on my shoulder. “Keep it for the bus ride. Trust me, I know” with a knowing smile, she retrieved a pink sharpie from her purse, and reached for my hand. I let her pull down my black glove enough to scribble her phone number in perfect writing. “Tomorrow at lunch, text me where you are, and I’ll come find you for my jacket,” she squeezed my hand gently, waved, and climbed into the bus before I could say thank you or goodbye.

#chapter2 #chapters

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cold-ugly · 4 years

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🥀 𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖉 & 𝖚𝖌𝖑𝖞 chapter 1

Sleepless hours trickled past as I lay huddled under a fortress of blankets, waiting for the alarm to go off. I rubbed my stinging eyes, and sat up in bed, shivering in the freezing AC. I hastened to quiet my alarm before it woke the prison wardens - that's a special word for family. With all my will, I removed myself from the blanket fortress, and flipped on the light, blinking in stark contrast to the pitch darkness I found security in. I glanced at the mirror on my wall, disappointed but not surprised. As I stood up, haze clouded my vision, and static flooded my head.

I fell back onto the bed in a rush of pins and needles. I sank onto my knees to the floor from my bed, to hastily retrieve my clothes scattered upon the floor. I squeezed into my sports bra, and began the lengthy process of layering tank tops with shirts with sweaters with hoodies, leggings with jeggings with sweatpants, socks with socks with socks - and more socks. I struggled to get my socked feet into my red sneakers. Into my pockets, I stuffed my phone and headphones, and a little box with my pipe, bud, and a lighter. I sipped on water as I peeked out the window, noticing that the sun had yet to rise, before I began the descent into madness. I turned off the light, closed my door without a sound, and tiptoed down the tiled hall to silently slip out the front door. I stashed my little pot box beneath an evergreen, then trudged up the hill towards the sidewalk.

I gave a few shakes of each leg to loosen my muscles, as I plugged in the headphones and chose my playlist of songs with intense climaxes and heavy breakdowns. At the first note, my heart rate preemptively elevated. I sprang into a light jog, the piercingly cold November air practically slicing my cheeks. The sun was only a tease of dim light hidden behind the horizon. Being atop a tall hill, I gazed below onto the misty winter countryside, the barren trees floating by as I sprinted. The burning in my fingers and toes subsided into numbness, and each dry breath hitched in my sore chest. With each footstep I felt the reverberation of my jiggling thighs. As my stomach cramped, and I wanted to lay down in the frosted grass, I rested my hand onto my absent ribs, snuffed under layers of clothes and flesh. I ran harder. I didn't count laps, there was no end goal, no ribbon, no finish line, no winning this race. I'm finished when my knees buckle, until the next moonlit morning.

Panting, nearly heaving, I trudged downhill, the melting frost soaking through my worn-down sneakers. Once safe behind the evergreen, sheltered from any prying eyes, I unpacked my little box. I squatted to use my thighs as a table (they're surely huge enough) to set down the pipe as I packed in the fluffy weed. After several failed attempts, I finally managed to light the bowl with my numb fingers. The first breath of warm smoke after I'd been gasping such freezing air burned my hoarse throat, and as it filled my lungs I relaxed. With my exhale, I released a gorgeous cloud that dissolved into the gradually lightening sky.

I snuck back into the living room, the AC nearly as cold as outside. As my door clicked shut, the first stirrings of morning life emerged. Through our shared wall, my sister's alarm blared incessantly. I shed my layers, tossing them back to the floor where I found them, slipped on my black fuzzy robe, and tied my unwashed hair into a greasy bun. I stuffed my headphones and tiny bud box into the front pocket of my leather backpack, then headed toward the bathroom. On my way, I heard my mom's door creak open, and I hurriedly slipped away behind the safety of a locked door. I ran the water hot, tossed the robe onto the counter, and stepped into the delightful ecstacy of warmth. As I looked to the water spiralling down the drain, I noticed the strawberry-red color of my fingertips and toes thawing. I shivered under the water for who knows how long, until rapid knocks interrupted my peace. I shut off the water and bundled myself in a towel, grabbed my robe, and opened the door.

"You took a shower, but you didn't wash your hair? That's disgusting." My sister remarked. "Save it, I never see you brush your teeth. Your teeth are gonna end up like your brain: full of holes." I shoved past her and hustled back to my room, sighing in annoyance. I dried off and quickly dressed in a huge grey sweater over a t-shirt, and black fleece-lined leggings. After taking down my hair, I tried to brush it but gave up, and tied it back in a high ponytail. I checked my phone to see no texts, set an alarm for fifteen minutes, and placed it on my desk. I opened my laptop, turned on some music, and went to Minecraft. After the fifteen minutes was up, I zipped up my boots and threw my backpack over my shoulder. I headed to the kitchen to retrieve my half-gallon of lemon water from the fridge. My mom was standing at the counter adding splenda to her black coffee. "Good morning," she croaked. "Good morning," I echoed politely as possible, grabbing my water and setting it on the counter next to my sister's sequined lunchbox. On cue, she appeared, and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet next to me. As she poured her lucky charms, mom commented, "Why don't you eat the cheerios? You know that shit is loaded with sugar. Y'know it can cause cancer-"

"Mom, c'mon," my sister interjected, "it's already in the bowl." I rolled my eyes and headed toward the door. My mom called after me, "So what, no breakfast?"

"I eat at school, you keep forgetting."

"They serve you crap there. You're letting them kill you."

"Them and everyone else," I grabbed my coat from its hook on the wall, and left.

Secure again behind the evergreen, I squatted to pack my second bowl, and puffed it as I scrolled mindlessly on my phone. My instagram and school email each had several notifications that I continued to diligently neglect. To my right, someone's footsteps crunched in the grass. I peeked through the leaves, relieved to see my sister's pink coat. She ducked behind the tree with me, and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.

"Now that is disgusting," I commented as she lit one of her cancer-sticks. She dismissively shrugged her shoulders. After all of mom's lectures that everything is a carcinogen, it's no wonder my sister is so desensitized. We smoked in silence until we heard the distant screech of the bus braking at the top of the hill. I stashed my box underneath the tree in a shallow hole, and covered it with leaves. We sprinted to the bus stop, joining the rest of the high schoolers in the neighborhood as they filed into the musty vehicle. I took an empty seat near the middle and put my backpack next to me, while my sister went to sit with her friend group at the very back. I plugged in my headphones, adjusted my coat, and took my notebook from my backpack to finish the homework I should’ve done a week ago.

I dropped off my backpack in front of my first class on my way to the breakfast line. As I queued with the other students, I scrolled through the fashion inspiration pictures saved in my phone, in a special folder. My heart shattered at each flawless photo of people my age flaunting the clothes I wished I could wear. While moving slowly through the line, I grabbed a gatorade zero and an apple juice. Walking back to my first class, I passed several people I’d grown up with since elementary school, and as they talked amongst themselves like any happy normal teen, I seemed to phase right through them. I took my assigned seat near the front, and placed my notebook on the desk to hurriedly finish the homework.

Students rushed through the door as the bell rang. Whoever sits in front of me appeared to be absent, so I propped my feet up in the seat. I was still scribbling the last few answers onto my paper as the national anthem blasted over the intercom. My peers shot nasty looks at me as I remained seated while they stood. After all the sheep had finished baa-ing the pledge of allegiance, the teacher called for homework to be passed to the front. Amidst a symphony of zipping backpacks and rustling papers, two girls in the row next to me obnoxiously squabbled over a phone. “Let me see it!” one wailed. I sipped my apple juice while I observed the girls grappling to rip the phone out of the other’s hand. As they wrestled for the phone, it flew, like a projectile, and knocked the bottle out of my hand. I gasped in shock as the juice splashed all over me.

“What’s going on?” the teacher demanded. I sped over to her and presented my drenched clothes. “Can I please go change? I spilled my drink. I’m sorry,” I replied. “Oh, okay, go ahead. I’ll call the janitor.” I grabbed my backpack, and rushed out of the room.

I took a detour to my locker and grabbed my gym bag on the way to the bathroom. Once locked in the very back stall, I dropped my coat to the floor and pulled my sweater over my head. Relieved that my undershirt was surprisingly dry, I dug in my gym bag for a new long-sleeve. I pulled out the sneakers, shorts, and socks, emptied the bag, and my heart sank. The long-sleeve wasn’t there. Why the fuck isn’t my shirt in here? I sighed and held my head in my hands. What the fuck am I going to do? I shoved the wet clothes into my gym bag, put my sneakers on them, and stuffed in the clean clothes on top. Sitting on the bathroom floor, I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my arm on them. Damn it. Now I remember that I took my gym shirt home yesterday because I wanted to switch it with the red one, but I forgot to bring the red one today. Typical.

On my way down the hall, I noticed the custodian leaving my classroom. “Sir,” I called after him, “I’m so sorry you had to clean up my mess. Must have been a sticky situation." He chuckled, “It’s no issue, I’ve seen worse.” I smiled, and told him to have a good day. As I returned to my seat, the teacher called my name. “This is the assignment, hon, it’s just questions one through twenty on page 103 of your textbook. If you do twenty through thirty, you'll get bonus points,” she handed me the paper. As I outstretched my hand to take it, I followed her gaze to my lacerated forearm. I snatched the paper and hustled back to my seat, where I took out the textbook from my backpack and flipped through the pages. God, she saw my arm. She's going to tell on me, fuck, they're gonna call my mom again. How can I get out of this? What page did she say? 130? 113? I consulted the board, and saw it was blank. With no shoulder in front of me to peek over, I strained to glance at the neighboring row, and frantically combed through my book to find a page that looked similar to theirs. Someone got up and turned in their assignment before I even found the correct page.

Sitting in my second class, I skimmed over my notes for the test while I waited for the bell to ring. My left palm remained flat on the cold desk, sheltering my forearm. Throughout the class, I tried to be so invisible as to draw no attention to myself. I labored on each answer of the test, in an effort to bring up my grade, and consequently quiet my mom’s bickering. As I glanced around the room, I noticed other students finishing up while I lagged behind.

Knock knock.

My heart skipped a beat.

“Is Ren here?” asked a student assistant from the guidance counsellor’s office.

My teacher replied, “We’re in the middle of a test, can this wait?”

“Sorry, it’s urgent.”

“Ren, could you come here please?”

I brought my test with me, and gave it to the teacher, who notified me that I’ll need to finish it during lunch. I nearly held my breath as I approached the door. The assistant told me to go with him. I trailed him silently down the halls, and took a seat in the office. “Your counsellor will call you back in a minute,” he reported. With my arm in my lap, I glimpsed around the walls at all the motivational posters with meaningless quotes, heart pounding in my chest. I can’t fucking believe I let this happen. As I looked around, I noticed a girl sitting in the chair in front of me, who was entranced by the pastel blue, stickered, and bedazzled DSI in her hands. Her hair was half black and half lavender, divided into two long braids, and a pink sweater draped elegantly over her freckled shoulders. In her lap perched a white purse shaped like a cat. “I like your purse,” I blurted, “I love cats.”

Her chestnut-brown eyes drifted up to meet mine. “Thank you,” her voice was silky and small. “They’re my favorite. I have three, how many do you have?”

“I actually can’t have cats right now, my mom is allergic,” I admitted.

“That’s awful,” she pouted, “you should see mine.” She took out her yellow phone and showed me her lockscreen, a calico cat. “This is Muffin! She’s so old! And so chunky.”

“She’s adorable,” I smiled, and noticed I’d been biting my nails.

“So are you here for the group?” she inquired. I gave her a puzzled look.

“Uh, which group?” I asked, confused. Like, a high school version of narcotics anonymous?

“Y’know, the counsellors made a girls group,” she replied, “for our mental health.”

Oh.

“That sounds cool,” I sighed. It’s already uncomfortable enough that I have to use the women’s restroom. “So you should join!” she squealed. I looked to the floor, and noticed her sparkly sneaker was untied. “Your shoe is untied.” She raised her leg to inspect the shoe, and frowned. “I don’t know how to tie them,” she whined. I raised an eyebrow, and almost held my tongue, but offered, “I could do it for you.” She smiled and extended her foot to me. I knelt, and tied the laces in a double knot, then double-knotted the other shoe. “Thank you! You’re so nice. So if you aren’t here for the group, then what are ya here for?”

Silent, I looked at her, reaching for a possible explanation that wouldn’t freak her out. Her face softened, and she gestured to my arm. She saw. She hates me now. “Is it because of the cuts?” I nodded, my face burning red in shame. “It’s okay,” she reached out and patted my knee. “It’s just an inconvenience, right? Just an uncomfortable conversation, and then it’s over.”

“They’re gonna call my mom,” I confessed, “I don’t wanna get into it with her. I just got my door back a couple weeks ago. I seriously don’t want to do this again.” She stared at me silently, then her eyes suddenly lit up. She bent down to rummage in her cherry-print backpack, then tossed into my lap a light yellow jacket. “Maybe they won’t make you roll up the sleeves,” she chirped hopefully. “Thank you,” I slipped on the soft jacket and cringed at how tight the sleeves felt around my arms, realizing I probably can’t even zip it up over my stomach. She beamed, and a door clicked open. “We’re ready for you,” a counsellor informed the girl. She cheerfully stood up, waved bye to me, and disappeared into the room. Her jacket smelled clean and sweet, the way fresh snow looks like it should taste.

#chapter1 #chapters

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cold-ugly · 4 years

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TAG LIST

To organize my posts, I’ll be using certain tags. You can find each tag by typing dirty-mirror.tumblr.com/tagged/(TAG) into the search bar. For example, if you want to find all of my previews (sneak peeks of the story) you will search dirty-mirror.tumblr.com/tagged/previews 🖤

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