Words, Words, Words

Every person has a deep, dark secret that they refuse to tell anyone; one secret that haunts them every moment of their lives. Harmful and disheartening, they go through the day, letting the the secret loom over them, as a constant trouble; the cause of the frown upon their face.

This is what races through my mind as my finger slides into my mouth and past my back molars. Gagging on reflex, it goes farther until I can feel the familiar sensation run through my body. Both my hands grab a side of the toilet as everything I've eaten all day comes rushing out. Tears, on contact, spill from my eyes and when I'm done, I sit there for a moment, thinking.

With my stomach contents in the toilet, tears sliding slowly past my jaw line and landing on my shirt, I ponder about how I got here - on the bathroom floor, making myself throw up. Memories, mental images and the all too familiar British accent of Oliver Scott Sykes can't help but fill my head. The tears fall faster.

Why? What could Oliver have to do with my eating disorder?
Simple - He was the cause of it.
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I was thirteen years old, born and raised in sunny California, and now I was being whisked off to rainy, drab Sheffield, England. My millionaire, infamous father's company often him moved him from place to place, usually only in the state. But they had decided that Sheffield was where they needed him now that he had gotten a promotion. Whatever it was he did, he was important so putting up a fight was worthless - it would only be ignored.

Sure, our new house was bigger. Sure, England was supposed to be glamorous with the fashion and the good-looking citizens. Sure, whatever. All I cared about was friends.

I made most my friends quickly on the first day of school. Surprisingly, all the kids were easy to get along with, especially when you're 'the new American lass.' But sadly, there was one exception. As quickly as I made friends, I made an enemy as well.

It was lunch when I met Oliver. I was sitting with my new friends, Lydia and Faith, when a boy with chubby cheeks, bright, hazel eyes and dark hair walked over to us. He glanced at me before looking at Lydia with a smirk, "Hey, Dee, are yeh comin' ova' afta' schoo'?"

"I don' know, yet, Olleh. I hafta ask my mum," Lydia shrugged as she put her hands in her lap and looked at the boy. He nodded and smiled at Faith before looking at me. I was pulling out cookies from my brown paper bag when he spoke up.

"So, Dee, who's yeh new friend?" He asked. I looked up at him as I bit into the cookie nonchalantly. As I chewed, I furrowed my brow, giving a nasty look. He couldn't have just asked me for my name?

"Oh, this is Amelia. She's from America. Amelia, meet Oliver Scott Sykes," Lydia said, smiling. 'Oliver' shot daggers at Lydia.

"It's Olleh, love. Just Olleh," He scoffed before looking my way again. He forced a smile and said, "So yeh from America, aye? Can I hear tha' accen'?"

"Accent? I don't have an accent. You guys do," I muttered, biting into another cookie. Oliver chuckled and looked at Lydia, but I didn't pay any attention to what was going on between them. I began talking to Faith before Oliver rudely interrupted.

"So, do tell, love, is America all it's crack' up teh be?" Oliver asked. I turned away from Faith and looked at him for a long moment. "Aye, yeh hear me or are yeh hard of hearin', doll?"

"Stop calling me pet names. My name is Amelia. Uhm-eel-ee-uh," I emphasized, sneering. Oliver let his eyes go wide before he let out a low whistle. I rolled my eyes and grabbed my last cookie, taking a big bite out of it.

"Well, sorreh, Uhm-eel-ee-uh, just tryin' to strike up some conversation. Guess yeh a lil' too bitter," He muttered. I was about to say something in response, but he cut me off, smirking and whispering loud enough for Lydia and Faith to hear, "But jus' a lil' advice from me teh yeh. Put down the cookies or yeh'll blow up like a balloon - oh, too late."

And with that, he turned and walked away to a group of boys. I watched him leave, my mouth a little open. Faith and Lydia were staring at me with wide eyes. I slowly put the cookie down and glanced at my stomach, suddenly feeling completely sick and not hungry at all.

But that wasn't the last of Oliver Scott Sykes.
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With a sigh, I got up off the cold, tile ground. The memories stung but the tears had stopped and dried, staining my cheeks with mascara. Quickly, I flushed the toilet and washed my mouth and face off, before plastering a fake smile on and exiting the bathroom.