the Slice of a Knife

"The Slice of a Knife" is my take on a modern Cinderella.  I hope you enjoy it and I look forward to hearing your feedback!  

***I am re-posting this on here as I no longer know what I want to do with this; my style has drastically changed since then.  :)

The Slice of a Knife

By: Laura Lavelle

Height: five feet, three inches tall.  Weight: 89.4 pounds.  Waist: twenty-one inches.  Hips: twenty-six inches.  I look down at the scribble on the page before me, the measuring tape in my left hand, the pen in my right.  I rise from my seat on the closed toilet lid, standing naked before the mirror, staring at my body: the skin is too pale, with dry patches on my arm making me appear ghostly beneath the ash.  My chestnut brown hair is now dull and flat, laying against my head like a dead plant, deflated and withered; brittle.  My nose is like a tiny button, the only cute thing about my face.  It’s marred by the eyes that are set just a sixteenth of an inch too far apart, not enough for anyone to see it.  I do.

I see the freckles that pepper my almost flawless cheeks, but the cheekbones aren’t high enough.  My eyebrows don’t arch enough.  Even my lips are too thin, too small.  I glance away from the blue-gray eyes that seem just as dead as my hair, with bags beneath them that are so large I’m pretty sure Michael Kors has already made a purse out of them, and focus on the tiny breasts that poke out from my chest like I’m a child.  They’re what made the leader of the “itty-bitty-titty-committee”, as Catherine says whenever she catches me without my shirt on, whispering words of hate, words of judgement to her sister, to our classmates, even to me when she knows it’ll hurt me the most.  Her and Alexandra don’t have to worry about things like this, and I envy them more than I’ll ever let on.

I hate them.  I can almost taste bile on my tongue as I think about them and their collagen-injected lips and those implants and nose-jobs they received as their sixteenth birthday gifts.  I hate them and their mother, the plastic surgeon.  Daddy married her when I was eleven, only a year after my mother passed away, and ever since then she always finds a way to tell me I’m getting fat.

She told me yesterday, in fact, as I went to the kitchen to grab an apple to snack on that if I ate it I might gain a few pounds and then no man will ever love me.  “It’s why your mother died, you know,” she had said.  Mom died from diabetes.  It was from her horrible sweet tooth that she could never gain control over.  I remind myself this even now as I stare down at the belly that has too much flub and my thighs that wiggle just a bit too much whenever I walk, still with the same mantra that it’s okay to eat.

It’s okay to eat.

It’s okay to eat.

But what if I gain weight?

What if it gets to be so much that I end up like mom, getting diabetes at a young age and passing before I can be who I want to be?

I stare longingly at the thin, dark lines that decorate my upper thigh.  Row after row of tiny, dark, dried droplets of burgundy mar my alabaster flesh and I feel the urge race through my fingertips, my heart quickening and picking up its beat with a thud, thud, thud, in my ears, pushing the glorious treasure through my body faster and faster and faster until my hand is thinking all on its own and grabbing the razor blade, the metal biting into skin until I bring its sharp edge to my thigh, placing it parallel to the last line on top and press down, down, down, until the skin depresses and releases along with a pinch and a fresh new wave of sticky, ruby liquid.  I slide the blade along my leg, exhaling as I do so, feeling the rush of the adrenaline leave my body.  I do it again, and again, and again, each time repeating “it’s okay to eat” until my leg looks like chopped meat.

A knock on the bathroom door indicates my private time is up and I throw on my bathrobe, red and fluffy, dumping the blade into the pocket along with the tape and the small notebook.  I hide my shaking hand, grabbing the blade inside of my pocket, curling my fingers around it as I take my right hand and open the door.

I see stars as a hand connects to my cheek, its palm open.  It smacks against my face with a loud clap, hard enough to hurt yet soft enough as to not bruise the flesh, and I can taste copper on my tongue.  “What the fuck Evangeline, now I won’t have time to get ready for school.”  Catherine stands before me, her gaze piercing into my soul as she peers down at me, her lips squeezed together reminding me of someone who sucked on a lemon for too long.  Her black hair is pulled into a ponytail on the top of her head, and her eyeliner is flawless and winged.  You could say she was the prettiest girl in the entire high school, followed closely by her vile twin, but you could also say a few other things about her.

I step out of the way and she still manages to knock me over, sending me flying towards the ground.  “It’s not like I wasn’t done anyways,” I call out, wondering what she still had left to do.

Sometimes she does that, goes out of her way to make me feel pain, to remind me that I’m not her daughter, not now or ever.  Sometimes she uses her words, the other times her body, and the worse is when its silence.  Silence cuts into me, makes me bleed from wounds that I can’t see.  Alexandra is already downstairs at the table most likely eating a yogurt with a glass of Crystal Light, waiting for Cat so they can start their ritual of talking about boys and which ones would improve their social status.

It’s the same every day.

I walk towards the end of the hall, climbing the stairs to my room in the attic.  I used to have a bedroom downstairs but the step-monster whined and complained how her girls had weak lungs and couldn’t be bothered by the cooler yet dustier air of the attic.  So Daddy caved.  And now it’s my burden.  I shiver as I open the door, a cool breeze blowing through the open window on the far side rushes up my leg onto the opened wounds that still leak, spilling onto my flesh and dripping down like melting ice.  I wrap it in a fresh towel, grabbing the gauze I keep under my pillow next to another spare razor and wrapping my leg up until the blood can’t seep through; there’s no need to stain my Hollister jeans, even if they are two seasons out of date and hand-me-downs from Catherine. 

They’re a size too big, a zero in juniors, and having them on my body makes me feel like a frumpy mess with sagging clothes.  It wrinkles slightly around the ankles and I roll them up, trying to hide the bagginess by pretending that they’re supposed to be boyfriend cut.  I throw on a crop-top and a pair of cute booties and look up, frowning at the result.  The crop top – it was actually a cute tank-top that Alexandra threw out and I cut the bottom off – matches my booties, since they’re both black, but I can’t hide how low the pants sag on my hips.  Yes, boyfriend jeans should hang a little, but they’re like way too low, and so I go with the grunge look and tie a flannel shirt around my waist.

I grab the curling iron from my desk and flip the switch, allowing it a chance to heat up as I brush the tangled hair, wrapping it in pieces around the searing iron until it remains in a perfect curl.  I do this for my whole head, taking a comb and separating the curls, teasing the hair towards my scalp to give it a false sense of bounce.

Better.  I turn away from the mirror and grab the makeup bag, trying and achieving the smoky-eye look with dark eyeliner and a wad of foundation to hide the black circles and small scars from the oil splatter incident of two years ago.  With my mask in place and an outfit on that I felt could be the one that makes Logan notice me, I make my way downstairs.

No one noticed.  I grab the chair next to Daddy, he’s reading the paper with a buttered English muffin on a plate before him, coffee cup nearly drained.  I look longingly at the crumbs on his plate and opt, instead, for water, my mouth salivating and needing something to wash down the urge to eat.

“Oh my god, so like I was thinking that it would be sort-of acceptable if Mark asked me to homecoming.”  I glance sideways at Alexandra who’s talking between tiny bites of strawberry and banana mush.

“Well you can have him,” Catherine says, her nose scrunching up in disgust, “but if Logan asks me I think I’ll die and just float away to heaven.”

You mean sink down towards hell? I think, grinning as I take a sip from the cool glass.

“We should totally go shopping.”

Catherine’s eyes sparkle and a grin spreads like a cancerous growth over her makeup-caked face.  “Why don’t we go later?”

“Oh my god yes!”

The step-monster, a.k.a. Margaret, walks in wearing a sharp pantsuit, her raven black hair – matching her daughters’ – is pulled into a bun on the top of her head, her face flawless beneath makeup.  She’s one of the best Hollywood plastic surgeon, with an entire practice she started a decade ago, and I sit smaller in my seat, not wanting her gaze to fall on me and my imperfections.  “Mom, Alexa and I want to go shopping after school for homecoming.  Can we go?  Pretty please?”  Cat bats her eyelashes, pulling out all of her tricks.

“I don’t see a problem with it,” she says over her shoulder as she pours herself a cup of coffee from the pot.  “I’ll give you my card since I’m working late tonight.”

“You know, why don’t you go too Eva,” says Daddy from behind his paper, trying to remain hidden and absent as he tries to push me to be closer with them, ignoring their horridness by pretending he’s ignorant.

I can feel the curl of ice swirling within my stomach, spreading out as three pairs of eyes stare at me.  I itch to cover up the splotches of red that must be seeping into my cheeks, fidgeting in my seat like a child who’s been told they can’t get up from time-out.  Cat looks at Alexa, exchanging a glance before plastering on a fake smile, nodding.

“We’ll take her, mom,” says Catherine and the grin curls maliciously towards her ears like a deranged Cheshire cat.

“Fine.”  Her stiff shoulders are the only indication of her anger towards the situation, but I can’t focus on that.  All I can think about now is how Logan will look in a tux, staring at me as I descend the staircase towards him in a beautiful dress with my hair pinned up like in the movies.  But homecoming is in the gym.  There are no staircases, no chances for a grand entrance.  And still I daydream all the way to school, through the car ride as I sit in silence squished against the window, through the doors as I make my way towards my locker, exchanging my books, even up until I walk into first period – Health with Mr. Tanner – where I sit in the middle all the way against the windows.

“Miss Haven?”

I shake myself out of my stupor, stupid, stupid, stupid, I repeat in my head, pinching the soft skin on the inside of my wrist as I say “present,” knowing full well whose eyes are on me.  Mr. Tanner scratches a check next to my name in his book and still I won’t, I refuse to look at the pair of deep green eyes that are still staring at me.

Eyes that belong to the most beautiful boy in all of the school.

“You seem like you’re in a different world today,” says a voice full of honey and summer and oh my god I know who’s talking but there’s no way and I have to look but I can’t look but I have to and maybe if I just peer a little from the corner of my eye… oh my god, Logan Patterson just spoke to me.

I gulp, take a deep breath, force a smile on my frozen lips.  I turn slightly in my seat, not noticeably enough for Mr. Tanner to suspect anything but enough so that I can see him in all of his glory with the honeysuckle hair that flows from his head in soft waves, mussed in perfection as if a breeze from the heavens helped shape his hair.  “Yeah, I’m just tired, you know?”

He rolls his eyes, groaning, “You’re telling me.  I was up all night working on that presentation we have today in art.”

I groan in agreement, even though I finished my project the day after it was assigned, having gotten lost that Saturday in thought as oil met the canvas and exploded in rich colors and glorious patterns that danced and swirled to create the image that I had been recreating; the photo of Mom I had flipped the photo album to still faced the ceiling, and now its duplicate faced me.  “I’ve been working late every night trying to finish it.”

“I’m sure yours will be the best, yet again.  You’re an amazing artist, you know?”  He says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.  Those perfect lips.

I blush, “Thank you,” I mumble as I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, hoping he doesn’t see me bite my lip behind the curtain of curls I placed between us as I shrank in my seat.

I stay in this state, giddy and excited, throughout the day, not even flinching as Cat and Alexa sneered and teased me with their cheerleader friends at lunch – which was another bottle of water for moi, and a nibble from a quarter of a plain granola bar.  During art when we presented our projects Logan set up his easel beside mine and we whispered back and forth nonsense about the other projects. 

I could feel Cat’s eyes on me the entire class but I couldn’t care less, I was too ecstatic about Logan laughing with me and making jokes, something that we did every art class, but today seemed different.  Maybe it was all the hype about Homecoming in three weeks, maybe it was the fact that he seemed to blush every time I smiled, I don’t know.  All I know is that Logan Patterson, hottest guy in school and Cat’s secret crush, had all of his attention on me.

“And Miss Haven, what’s your art project about?”

I swallow a gulp, glancing at Logan who nods, encouraging me, giving me the strength to turn my easel towards the rest of the class and reveal the painting of my mother.  We look almost exactly alike, except she’s absolutely beautiful.  He eyes aren’t just a little too far apart like mine, her lips are more full and her chin is soft not jutting to a slight point.  Dad used to tell me stories about how they fell in love, how everyone would turn their head at her beauty, how she was completely unaware of how beautiful she truly was.  Cat grimaces at the image, a reaction I’m sure she inherited from her mother – who had made father remove every incriminating picture that hung in our house to make sure she snubbed out the memory of her.  I refuse to let go of her which is why I keep the photo album in the drawer beside the bed.

The teacher gives me my A and Logan pulls me into a tight hug, his arms nearly wrapping completely around me as he congratulates me.  I know my face must be beet red but I don’t care because Cat looks like she might murder someone and that makes me even more ecstatic.  The bell rings and I rush to the steps, waiting for Cat and Alexa, dying to get a new dress that Logan will like so much that he’ll have to ask me to dance with him.  And I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Thirty minutes pass and I’m pacing back and forth on the bottom step, my iPhone in my hand still and silent, as I wait for a text or a call or something.  I take a seat and place my elbows on my knees, resting my chin in my hand.  Two girls from my English period walk by, their heels click, click, clicking on the stone steps as they walk down.  They move to the other side of the staircase to avoid me, casting glances over their shoulder.

The girl on the right – the one closest to me – takes care to make sure she walks at least three feet away.  Her dark denim skinnies hug her stick skinny body while her long, blonde hair rests perfectly against her back; a pink headband pulling it away from her face matching the pink tank top she’s wearing.  She glances at me again and I feel my insides curl as I hear her whisper loudly to her twin, “Did you hear?”

The other girl, wearing nearly the same thing except her shirt is purple and she doesn’t wear a headband to hold back her wild mane of curls – she just lets them loose so they bounce when she walks – turns and glimpses towards me before pulling her lip back in a sneer, “I heard she’s a cutter.”

The first girl laughs, “I heard she’s obsessed with Logan.”

How do they know?  Panic races through my veins and I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to… I stand up, the panic taking hold in my chest as I rush down the last step, ignoring the snickers from the two girls behind me as I take off, heading towards nowhere and everywhere and somewhere.  I run and run and run until I make it downtown.  The school is only a fifteen minute car ride away, but I ran and now I feel sweaty and gross and out of breath.  I try and catch my breath, hoping my hair doesn’t look as deflated as I feel, and stand up tall.  I walk into the store on the corner, the one with the big poofie dresses and mannequins that are thinner than me wearing them for display.

I enter the store, the bell overhead dinging as I open the door, and I step into a world of dazzling jewels and sequins, glittering all around like a treasure trove.  I walk through the aisles, looking at different gowns heavily loaded with taffeta, some with skirts so wide you can’t even hope to keep your balance while walking around.  I run my hand over the racks, the swoosh of the fabrics beneath my fingertips already sending shivers down my spine.  My eyes go wide as they catch a glimpse of a dress towards the back of the store, half hidden in a rack behind two cupcake pink dresses.

I walk over to it, my vision narrowing into pinpoints as I reach out and grab it.  The silver silk of the dress glides over my fingers like water, the lace trim around the empress-cut waist spilling down like gold tear drops, ending in pearl drops.  I take it from its place on the rack and bring it into the back, snagging a fitting room towards the end of the hallway.

It fits like a glove, except that my boobs aren’t big enough to fill in the top.  I look into the mirror, pulling at the straps to see if maybe I can adjust them so that it’ll sit right, but maybe it won’t and I’ll look like a horrible fool; I’d feel like that fool of an emperor except that instead of being naked I’ll be the flat freak in a gown made for a Queen.  I feel tears welling in my eyes when I hear two voices walking towards my dressing room.

“I can’t believe we ditched her.”

“Fuck her, she’s so annoying.”

Wait a minute… I listen more carefully, trying to stifle my sniffling, wiping the rivulets of liquid that won’t stop streaming down my cheeks.  Is that…?

“Mom’s letting me get some lipo like next week so I won’t have to worry too much about what I eat.”

Cat.

“You’re going to look so beautiful.”

Alexa.

I feel my nose tingle from the snot I keep wiping away and I know that this won’t end well as I feel my eyes begin to close and pressure begin to build and build and build until achoo!

“Bless you,” says Alexa nonchalantly.

“Thank you,” I say, my knee-jerk reaction immediately forcing my hands to come up and cover my mouth, hoping, praying, needing my words to come back so I can swallow them before they had the chance to spill out and over my traitorous lips.

They pause, then I hear Alexa’s voice rise, “Hello?”

Cat flings open the curtain, her eyes locking with mine, as I fling my arms to cover my chest.  She’s got in her hands a beautiful blue gown that flows as she moves, making me curious as to how it would look on her. Her glance moves down, landing on the dress, rising towards my mascara stained cheeks and then resting again on my eyes.

“What’s the matter with you?” She asks, venom in her voice.  Alexa stands behind her, her eyes filled with an unspoken apology as her hand comes up to cover her gaping mouth.

I shake my head, “Nothing, just trying on a dress for Homecoming.”  I back up towards the mirror, my arms dropping down and revealing the loose upper half of the dress.

Her look changes to something of sympathy and it makes me squirm.  “You know,” she says, her lips twisting up in a grin, mocking me, “I know my Mom would never do it for you, but I know someone who can help you with those.”  I follow her gaze towards my flat chest and instinctively cross my arms over them.

“I don’t have any money,” I say in as small a voice as I can manage, taken aback by her random words of kindness.

“I can help, you know, if you want to go through with it.”

“Really it’s alright, I don’t have the money…”

She smiles and it seems so inviting and I find myself trapped in her gaze, my own lips beginning to curve into a smile and she puts her arm around me, “He’ll do it for you for free,” she places her hand to cover her mouth as if telling me a secret, “he owes me a favor.”

For free?  This is just too good to be true, and I know this but I feel as if she’s actually taking pity on me for a change which is so wonderful and I just can’t believe it and… “I can’t afford the dress either, so it doesn’t really matter.  Thanks though,” I say as I wriggle out of her grip and turn back to change out of this gorgeous gown.

“Don’t worry about it, remember?”  She smiles, holding up the black American Express, and I feel as if things are finally starting to go my way as I grin, “Just take it off and we’ll pay together, ok?”

I nod as she closes the curtain and I feel as if I may finally have some peace between the two of us.  My fingers move automatically as they unzip the dress, carefully placing it on its hanger once again as I throwback on my outfit.  I take a seat outside in the waiting room, my leg jumping up and down like a druggie on cocaine as I replay the conversation over and over and over again in my head.  Free implants?  I know it’s too much, and I know there’s no way, but if I get this dress I can definitely tailor it myself so no worries, but if what she said is true then this is the greatest day of my life.

After almost an hour they emerge, grins on their faces and bundles of fabric draped over their arms.  Cat pulls out her mother’s credit card, paying for our dresses, and then we head home.  I race to my room, hanging the dress in my closet and hiding it behind the two other large dresses (my conformation gown and of course my middle school prom dress with its pleats and rhinestones).  Cat comes up a little while later with a folded up piece of paper, handing it to me and winking.  I can feel my heart beat a thousand miles and minute as I unfold it to find the name of the doctor and when and where to meet him.

He’ll do it tonight at midnight.

Oh. My. God.

He’s doing it tonight.

I can’t breathe or think and so I start pacing, checking the time, 7:15pm.  Curfew is at midnight so I’ll just tell Daddy I’m staying at a friend’s house, although I don’t have any to name, but that isn’t too much of a biggie.  I hope.

I throw on a pair of sweats and a zip-up hoodie, grabbing my purse and keys, making sure I’m prepared as I rush out the door, calling out and saying that I’ll be home tomorrow.

No one cares anyways.

I hop on the bus, heading towards Tijuana, my leg bouncing all over the place as we rush towards where I have to be; the bus is my steed as I make my way across the treacherous blocks that make up the “ghetto” – the poorer side of town where the buildings are pretty much all run down and there are large cracks in the sidewalk that open up, threatening to swallow you whole.  We rush through town and I find myself dazzled by the scenery.

Oceans of blue and plots of land filled with vines that spiral up, twisting around wooden poles, litter the countryside.  We race past it and I drift off, waking up to find myself in a new, decrepit land.  It takes me almost four hours to get there and by then my anxiety is so built up I wished I had taken my blade with me.

I find the door and this feeling washes over me, warning me; a tiny, red, flashing light going off in my peripheral tells me I shouldn’t go in, I shouldn’t do this… but Logan.  He’d never go for someone like me, someone so flat-chested they can’t even wear a bra.  He’d go for someone like Cat.  At this thought I reach up and push the bell, a buzzer sounding off tells me the door is open so I pull the handle and find myself faced with a set of stairs, painted in a burnt pumpkin color and peeling in spots.

I climb the stairs and my fear seems to deepen as I find myself in a musty office with a flickering light buzzing overhead.  There’s dust and debris swept against the walls, under the shabby, rotting desk that sits in the center of the room, piled on the edges of the filthy windowsill.  A door rests on the wall behind the desk and I feel dread well up within me as I panic, unsure of what could be waiting, hidden on the other side.  I’m about to knock – or run back at this point – when someone on the other side flings open the door.  He’s handsome, with wavy blonde hair and blue eyes so light that they match the morning sky.  He has on a lab coat with scrubs underneath, a name tag hanging from his coat pocket telling me that his name is Doctor Jonathan Parker.

He extends his hand out towards me, a lopsided grin stretching his face in an attractive way that makes my stomach tingle, “My name’s Dr. Parker.”  We shake hands and I can’t help but think about how lucky I am and how grateful I am that Cat felt it was necessary to be nice for a change.  “Catherine told me to expect you so come on in.”

I follow him down the hall which is an off white color with tan carpeting running down the length of it that seems filthy and caked in grime.  We turn into the second door on the right and I find myself in an exam room, the table and trays set up already and waiting for me, a small woman with wrinkles marring her sagging flesh sits in the corner.  She’s wearing black scrubs – to hide the dirt I think – and her hair has grey streaks peppered throughout her head, pulling back into a bun.  She won’t look me in the eyes, won’t acknowledge me, but she sits beside a tray with a needle filled with clear liquid so I assume she’s the one who’s going to put me under. 

He motions for me to sit on the table and I do so, waiting patiently as he closes the door and stands before me.  On the side of me there is a giant mirror on the wall, smudges of handprints mar its crystal surface, dirtying it but I can still see me, see how much of a boy I look like, even with my makeup on, even with my hair done.  I feel the shame crawl its way up my spine as he instructs me to remove the sweater.

I do so, feeling awkward with my bare chest out for him to see.  He grabs a marker and begins drawing dotted lines across my flesh, talking about the procedure and asking me how large I’d like to be.  I’ve always wanted to be a size D and so I tell him so and he makes more marks on my skin.  I can’t pay attention to him.  My eyes are trained on the scalpel on his tray and the feeling of needing to slice into my skin and I want to grab it and just cut and bury it deep inside of the meat of my leg but I can’t and I won’t so I don’t and I wait for him to finish making his marks.

He stands, checking on his own lines until he looks up towards my face and smiles.  “Okay Miss Haven, I’m just going to need you to sign this form and we can get started.  He hands me a pen and thrusts a clipboard out towards me.  I know I should read it, and I know that I should put back on my hoodie and go right now, because for some reason I’m getting that feeling back and it’s creeping into my gut like a centipede up a tree, but I think they’re nerves.  Just nerves.  Nothing more than my jittery nerves.  I take a deep breath and I sign my name, sign my life away, my old, embarrassing life, and the next thing I know I’m being lowered onto the table and a mask is being pulled over my face by the woman as she grips my hand and inserts the needle into my veins and I’m getting sleepier, and sleepier, and sleepier, and then I see his grin encouraging me to do it so I close my eyes and dream an empty dream.

When I open my eyes I’m hurting, lying on the table.  Alone.

A blanket is pulled over me and I reach up to move it and immediately feel a stinging pain zip up from my hips towards my breasts.  That shouldn’t happen, right?  The air is cool as I pull the blanket down, finding a bottle of pain medication where the tools had been along with a small, folded up piece of paper hidden from sight, just barely sticking out from beneath the orange bottle.  I grab it and sit up, wincing and wheezing from the agony.  My eyes catch a glimpse of red and black and I look into the mirror and scream.  My beautiful breasts and covered in stitches, swollen, but large like they should be.  They shouldn’t have these giant slashes all over them but it’s not that: it’s the slice along my right hip with its puckered and red flesh searing, black laces through it, that pull my eyes away.  There’s something missing, I can almost feel it even if it’s only in my head, and the skin if sore and crimson and screaming as I move.  I tentatively reach up and stroke the serrated skin, hissing at my own touch.

This can’t be happening.

I tear open the piece of paper in my hand and see only one word scribbled on it in black ink, “Sorry”.  Sorry?  Sorry?!  He made me into the freak of town, a monster, and that’s all he has to say?  Sorry?  Sorry for what, for ruining my skin?  For ruining my life?  Sorry for taking advantage of me?  Sorry for making me into more of a freak than I’ve already been labeled?

I bang my fists against the mirror, cracking it; the glass splitting and carving a path down my reflection’s face.  Tears stream down my cheeks and I can’t stop them, the dam cracking open and the flood pouring from my soul.  I can’t believe I let myself trust this man, this stranger who Cat had recommended.  I knew something was wrong but I hoped – no, I needed to believe in him.  I needed him to be better than everyone else.  I needed someone, anyone, to look at me like I was a person and not another failed experiment gone wrong.  I just needed someone.  And he betrayed me.  Hope was a dangerous emotion.  Hope that Cat had finally done something nice.  Hope that this doctor could be trusted.  Hope that I could finally have something beautiful that was all my own.  Of course it was ripped out from beneath me before I even had the chance to enjoy it.

I carefully shrug on my sweater, zippering it up as gently as possible, and make my way home.  By the time I step in the front door it’s only a minute before my curfew – how long was I out for? – so I quietly close it and trudge up the stairs, wincing with each step and stifling my gasps as sharp jabs of pain jolt through me with each step.  I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed, painfully aware of each move I make.

I’m only alone for a few moments when there’s a soft knock on the door.  Cat walks in without me giving her permission and she stands before me with her arms crossed.  “So he actually did give you the implants.”

I look up, “What?”

She rolls her eyes, “He was supposed to fuck it up.”

Hurt flows through me as I swallow the bile that’s already begun its journey up my throat, “Why would he do that?”

“Oh my God, how can you be this stupid?”  Her glare turns into something inhuman as she snarls her words at me, “I hate you.  Stay out of my way.”

She goes to leave, “Wait, can you just tell me one thing?”  She pauses and I take this as my cue, “What favor did he owe you?”

“I didn’t have Mom sue him when she caught us fucking at her office.  Instead she fired him, claiming he was performing surgeries that weren’t approved, ruining his reputation.  That’s why he was in Mexico you stupid shit.”

My breath is coming in short, quick gasps and I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe and so I rush towards the bathroom as best as I can and push the door behind me as I grab the extra blade that I hid behind the tube of hydrocortisone and I slide my sweats down and my fingers itch and my thigh itches and I press the cool metal into my leg and bite back the scream as a thicker stream of sticky hot liquid dribbles down, and then I close my eyes.  I inhale.  I exhale.  I inhale.  I open them and throw the blade into the sink, grabbing my towel and dabbing at the fresh wound on my leg.  The door creaks behind me and I notice I never shut it all the way, but I don’t care.  The vent probably moved it, and so I pay it no mind as I bandage myself up, shocked to see the jagged length of red and black peek out from beneath my sweater.

I clean the blade and put it back where it belongs, bandaging my leg up before heading into my room and curling up beneath my blanket, entering a world where everything doesn’t hurt, where my skin is flawless, and there’s a beautiful boy who’s always smiling who wants to dance and twirl and be with no one else but me.

Dad was furious that I had been away for that long without telling him where I was or what I was doing.  He saw my huge breasts – something I couldn’t exactly hide – but when he looked up the name of the surgeon he came up to a dead end – of course it was a fake name.  I didn’t mention Cat or what she had told me, but I did mention that extra incision on my side because it throbbed and made me feel woozy.  I was admitted into a hospital where we learned that one of my kidneys had been removed from my body and my shame burned bright on my face, my stupidity a permanent brand on my side.  Dad forgave me, saying he was just glad that I was alright and that there was no infection from the grime and debris of the rundown office I had been to, forcing me to agree to eat more in order to keep my new implants.  But for me?  Well, I couldn’t be happier with my still swollen and tender breasts, even if they looked like something out of a horror movie with their scars and black stitches.

The weeks zoom by and my popularity sky rockets, and for the first time I have friends.  I’m in a limo, my dress shimmering in the light, with Logan’s arm around my shoulders.  We’re squished sitting backwards, facing the back of the limo where his friends and their dates are all dressed up and waiting to arrive at the dance.  I look down, careful that my huge boobs don’t bounce out of the top of my dress as we hit yet another pothole.

I still can’t believe he asked me.  Me!  I can still feel Cat’s glare as she watched him ask me, but she wasn’t there tonight when he picked me up.  She wasn’t there when Daddy snapped nearly two dozen pictures of us, a giant grin plastered on my face.

Sitting here I squirm, trying nonchalantly to fix my drooping neckline to subtly hide the scars that are beginning to peek out.  I’m still uncomfortable with them and their jagged, giant pink marks that crawl over my skin.  They healed mostly, and I pulled out the stitches when it was done, but they’re still bright and shiny; raw.  I know the stigma of homecoming night and the social convention of sex that proceeds such events but I’m thankful that Logan isn’t like that.

The other guys in the limo are nearly on top of their dates, their tongues shoved down their throats.  Logan places a small kiss against my temple and my blood rushes through me and I feel elated and I smile as he lowers hip lips to my ear, “I can’t wait for later.”

Later?  I plaster my smile on my face as panic begins gripping onto my heart, squeezing, “Why?  What’s later?” My voice is strained but I can’t let him see me panic.  I won’t.

He chuckles low, “For when we can dance.”

The panic begins to subside and I feel normal again, for a moment.  I’ll never be okay with taking off my clothes in front of him.  He’ll run, look at me like the freak that I am, the freak that I’ve become.

We pull up at the dance and it’s like a fairytale come to life.  There’s glass orbs with little fairy lights decorating the walkway towards the entrance of the school’s gym; rose petals litter the floor, leading the way towards the open doors where music pumps from towards us.  Logan is out before me and he holds out his palm, helping me out.  We walk towards the doors and my heart begins to beat loudly within my chest as we enter what looks like a garden – the decorating committee really outdid themselves this year.

Along the walls are hedges with fairy lights twinkling and sparkling like tiny fireflies, lighting up the tables that are set up so that everything is open in the center.  The only wall without the hedges is where the stage is set up with the DJ playing his music through the giant speakers set up on either side of him.  There’s a photo booth just before you enter and we stop there and take a picture.  My smile must be from ear to ear as he places his arms around my waist, holding me there.

This night is perfect.

We make our way towards the dance floor, leaving his friends to stand by the punch bowl – I know I saw one of them with a silver flask in the car – and immediately moving with the music.  We dance for hours, sweat dripping down my forehead as we jump and twirl and do the two-step with everyone else.  We’re like a sea of silk and crinoline and jewels, moving to the beat of each song, swirling and mixing until we’re not sure where one of us begins and the other ends.

It’s been hours, and I know what’s coming next when the music is cut.  I’m left panting, my dress wrinkled from where his hands have been holding me.  Principle Stone gets up on stage and we all cheer.  I glance towards Logan who’s grinning and cheering along with everyone else.  I feel like the luckiest girl there and I can’t believe this is happening.  I can’t believe that I finally get my night.  I can’t believe…

“… Miss Haven!”

Principle Stone finishes and there’s a spotlight shining down on us.  Logan grins and I feel my heart stop.  “Wait, what?”

There’s people cheering and shoving us towards the stage where a crown is placed on his head and a tiara on mine.  What the hell?  “Smile, my Queen,” he winks at me as he pulls back from whispering into my ear.  I just won homecoming Queen.

I won.

Me.

I feel light as a feather as the crowd parts and a slow song comes on.  Logan takes my hand and we twirl around, becoming one blur of silver and black, and I can’t help but relax and close my eyes and shut down my fears because this is happening.  This is real.

“You little bitch.”

The music stops as Cat walks over towards me, her sister Alexa standing among the crowd with the most twisted grin plastered on her face.  The principle begins to move towards us but he won’t make it in time, not with Cat marching towards me in her blue gown that flows about her like smoke.

Logan pulls me behind him, “Leave her alone, Catherine.”

My heart is beating a mile a minute as her date, Georgie, garbs Logan by the collar of his jacket, pulling him to the side.  “You’re a loser, a freak dressed in nice clothes,” she pauses, an evil grin splintering her face, turning my stomach to mush, “but let’s see you without your shell.”

She grabs onto the collar of my dress and pulls, tearing it down in one tug.  The rip extends down to my belly button and I scream as I pull my arms up to cover my exposed breasts.  A chorus of gasps echo in the silent gym and I feel heat spreading across my cheeks, my dress falling the rest of the way down to my strapped ankles in a low shush.

“You’re a cutter,” she hisses in my ear as she takes a step back for the entire school to see.  My scars are on display, even the ones littering my leg like notches along a doorframe to keep track of someone as they grow taller.  I’m shaking, from the cold or embarrassment or both, but I can’t stop.  They’re laughing at me.  They’re all laughing at me.  Even as they stare blankly I know they’re laughing on the inside at the freak girl covered in shining pink gashes.

I glance towards Logan who looks away from my gaze, a slight pink color rising in his cheeks, afraid that my freakishness could be contagious.  I can’t.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t breathe and they’re laughing at me and I need to leave, need to get out but my heels are too big to run and so I slip out of them and take off, a streak, a blur of pale white amongst the swirls of color, ignoring the shouts of Logan as he calls after me, and I don’t stop can’t stop until I get home.  I’m panting and out of breath and I can’t breathe and I run upstairs and rummage through the medicine cabinet but the blade is missing – where did the blade go? – and so I run downstairs to the empty kitchen and yank on the drawers looking for a knife until I spot the set in its block on the counter and I grab the handle and pull along my leg watching the skin indent and split and cry its ruby tears but it’s not enough and the panic attack is now in its full swing as I hiccup for air and so I slice again and again and again and still I can’t breathe so I try my wrist and I feel the blade as it slides across the pale soft virgin flesh and that’s when it begins to subside.

I can breathe.

I can feel.  I feel pain.  I feel the eyes of everyone still glued on me and the attack starts up again so I take the knife and slide it across my wrist again.  Fat drops of blood bubble up and pop, bursting and allowing the sticky liquid to ooze out of my arm and onto the floor.  I do it again and again and again until I can breathe again.  So I stop and sigh and lean against the cabinets, naked save for my underwear on the kitchen floor.

I hear a knock on the door and my eyes flutter open.  I hadn’t realized I closed them.  In fact, I don’t remember laying down on the floor either.  I go to move, to push myself up but I can’t seem to find the strength.  I move my hands, attempting to push myself again but my left arm is limp and my right arm slips on the tiles. 

That’s when the smell of copper and the taste of salt makes its way through my haze.  I feel weak and my body protests as I pick my head up, my hair sticking to my cheek.  All I see is red.  Red red red all around and everywhere, pooled around my body and staining my flesh, keeping me glued onto the tile like a fly caught on sticky paper.  Help I try and call but my mouth won’t move.  I can’t move.  Panic should be gripping my chest but it doesn’t.  I’m cold, but not uncomfortably so, and I hear the knock again.  My head drops onto the floor and I feel myself growing more and more sleepy, exhaustion must be setting in.  I know that’s what this is.  The door flings open as if someone’s kicked it and I see Logan standing in the open door to my house, my heels in his hand, his eyes wild and thrown open, looking for something; his mouth open in a silent scream that doesn’t quite reach my ears – why can’t I hear him?  And why does it sound like he’s under water?

He rushes towards me but I feel as if he's moving so slow, as if trying to run through molasses, and I feel my lips tilt in a smile as my eyes close again, blacking out the world.  His voice grows more and more faint as he calls out to me again and again and again but now I feel at ease, relaxed, empty.  I feel lungs expand without the fingers of panic gripping it in its claws.  I breathe.  I breathe.  I bre-

Copyright Laura Lavelle 2016