It’s worse than being called disgusting. This is like breaking me from the inside out with no chance of healing.

He was once my knight, my anchor, my warm shoulder. Now, he’s the villain coming after my life.

Now, he’s the master of that suffocating fog that’s slowly wrapping its tentacles around my throat and cutting off my air supply.

His back is all I see as he ascends the stairs.

And I know, I just know that he’s saying goodbye for the very last time.

 

 

19

 

 

Kimberly

 

 

The following three days pass in a daze. It’s like they’re happening, but they’re not.

Not really.

I told Elsa I’m down with the flu and skipped today.

Truth is, I’m down with myself.

It’s one of those times where everything is too much. The air, the sounds, the people.

All of it.

I stare at the empty crisp bags surrounding me and wipe the salt from my lips.

Technically, it’s called a food breakdown, where you eat everything and anything in sight. Not my M&M’s and pistachio gelato, though. Those are sacred and I didn’t want to ruin them in this unholy site.

So after I dropped Kir at Henry’s house for a sleepover, I went to the grocery store and got all the crisps and the cola – not diet. Then I went to McDonald’s and ordered the biggest menus of burgers and French fries. I finished the shopping journey by buying more pastries and cake than I could carry. Lots of damn cake. I shoved them all down my throat in no particular order. I just ate and ate and ate until my jaw hurt and my stomach protested, but I didn’t stop.

Even after the puking, I brought my stash with me to the toilet and continued eating and eating and fucking eating as if the food will somehow sew the hole inside me.

It didn’t.

So I drank half a bottle of tequila and had a Xanax pill – or was it two?

I lost count after I vomited everything I ate. The alcohol was definitely after the vomiting, because it sits on an empty stomach like pure, burning acid.

This time, I didn’t have to stick a finger in my throat. It’s as if my body is rejecting food because it’s become a foreign entity.

I lay my head on the closed toilet after I finish emptying my stomach for the second time. My gaze keeps filtering to the glinting metal amongst the mess. There isn’t any energy in me to stand and freshen up anymore. I just want to stay here and…disappear.

That’s it, disappear. How hard would it be?

The ironic part is, it’s not even because of what happened with Xan – or didn’t happen.

I can survive that, his rejection and his complete closing off. What I can’t survive is the hope I had that night, the feeling of finally having a purpose.

For my entire life, I’ve struggled with that, with finding a place and someone I can bare myself to.

Xander gave me that. He saw me, and unlike what I’ve always feared, he didn’t hate what he saw.

But then he pulled the carpet from under my feet.

Finding somewhere to belong just to realise you never do is like a betrayal. Perhaps, it’s the worst type of betrayal.

Maybe that day I abandoned him in the forest, Xander felt betrayed, too, and that’s why he’s been taking revenge ever since.

I understand that – I think I can anyway. I just can’t pretend it’s not affecting me or that I can be strong.

What’s being strong even like?

Is it waking up in the morning and not looking at the sharp blade I stole from Mari’s kitchen? Is it smiling while FaceTiming Dad, even though I want to scream at him to return? Is it forcing myself to look in the mirror so I can have my makeup done?

Or maybe it’s staring at my knight in the eyes and having a stranger staring back at me and not flipping there and then.

Once upon a time, he used to be mine. Now, he’s anything but.

The fog turns thicker with every breath I take, wrapping itself like a noose around me.

For the first time in my life, I have no energy or will to fight it.

I have absolutely nothing to lose, and everything to suffer.

“What the hell, Kimberly?” Mum’s voice rings like an alarm before her shadow falls over me in the bathroom.

Like a small kid with broken wings, I crawl up so I’m sitting and face her. No idea how I look. I’m wearing my pyjamas and my hair is in a messy bun. I put mascara on this morning, so it could be smeared all over my face. I didn’t check, because the thought of seeing that face made me want to ruin it.

Mum, however, has on her designer trousers with a khaki shirt and Louboutin heels. Her rich brown hair is elegant and with a beautiful wave to it.

“Hi, Mum,” I slur, then slap a hand over my mouth.

I’m drunker than I predicted. Oops.

“Have you been drinking?” She shakes her head and points at the food containers, the half-empty crisp bags “And what is that junk food? What did I say about losing that weight, Kimberly?”

“I’m sorry.” My chin trembles. “I’m sorry I’m a disappointment, Mum. I’m sorry you have to be stuck with someone like me.”

With every word out of my mouth, tears stream down my cheeks. They’re not only tears, though. They’re everything I’ve felt since I was a child.

Every time Mum is in sight, I feel so small; I dress wrong, breathe wrong, act wrong.

I exist wrong.

“If you’re sorry, fix it.” She stares down her nose at me. “Be worthy of being my daughter for once in your useless life.”

I nod frantically. “I’ll fix it.”

She does another glance over and her lips thin in a line, in disgust, in disappointment, in distaste.

Mum isn’t seeing me or the scar that’s visible since my pyjamas are short-sleeved. She doesn’t see the tears pooling in my eyes or the screams behind those tears.

She’s seeing a mess that she’s stuck with. She’s seeing someone who can ruin her image.

That’s all that I’ve been to her since I was born, a liability, a damn mistake.

I heard her tell Dad that last year, around the time my mental health took a sharp dive and the fog became my constant companion.

We shouldn’t have let her come into the world. Look at her. She’s a mess, Calvin.

Dad fought with her and stood up for me, but I don’t remember his words. It’s strange how the human mind only focuses on certain things, but not others, how I can only remember her saying I’m a mess, but not Dad calling me an angel.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve always craved attention she’s never given, love she’ll never grant, and care she’s not capable of.

Still, I find myself begging her with my eyes.

Look at me, Mum.

Help me.

Be my mum.

She turns around and leaves without as much as a glance. On her way out, she mutters to herself, “What have I done to deserve this?”

A strong wave of nausea hits me and I open the lid, clutching the sides with both hands, and heave until nothing comes out. I’m dizzy, and I feel as if I’ve been vomiting my soul aside from my gut.

The fog invades the bathroom like a being. It has a large body, all filled with black smoke while its invisible hands wrap around my throat.