How Many Times

I sat on the floor of my bedroom for the hundredth time, hiding just behind my bed against the wall; the one place where my mother wouldn't see me if she happened to walk by. The old blade (meant for scraping tape-like goop from walls) clenched between my thumb and middle finger. I couldn't even see the marks from previous nights I had spent sitting in this same spot, with the same thoughts running through my head. I sighed softly and put down the sliver of steel, for once without touching it to skin. I leaned my head against the cool plaster behind me, and closed my eyes. How many times do I have to cut myself to be a 'cutter?' I shifted slightly to let my body slide down to the soft, hideous carpeting left over from the 60's. I ran my hand through the thick fibers over and over again, until my whole hand was numb to the feeling.

I woke up the next morning to the sunlight streaming in through my window. I blinked my eyes to get my vision back. My head and neck ached--what had I done last night? I sat up slowly, remembering. I hate falling asleep on the floor. I check my iPod dock to see the time, and I nearly slid back to the floor: 7:37am. I manage to crawl onto my bed before passing out once more.

I'm a knight, and I'm facing a man half a head taller than me. His sword clashes with mine, making a terrible steel-on-steel clang. As he pushes me to my knees I free myself, quickly turning in time to block his next swing. Just as my blade hits his side, he morphs into a grotesque beast. Dripping in a foul-smelling fluid, the beast advances toward me. I step back to try and escape, but he's coming closer and closer and my back is against the wall. I finally notice the sword in my hand, and swing it with both hands at its face. Instead of cutting through the bubbling flesh, the sword bounces off with a bang, bang, bang...

"Wake up! Hey, wake up! Are you alright in there? Unlock this door right now!"
My mother's voice as she pounds on the door is loud enough to wake me. I roll out of bed, a sharp pain slicing through my foot.
"Shit," I mumble, seeing the blood on my heel. The orange-handled blade glinted on the floor.
"Would you open the door already?! If I have to wait another second, I swear I'll break down the--"
He face goes from red to white and back again as I open the door to look at her. She frowns and gives me a once-over before running to get me a damp cloth.
"What happened to you?" she asks, wiping my face and shirt collar with the towel, "I heard you from my room. Did you do this in your sleep?"
I looked down at myself, finally aware of the vomit covering my shirt.
"Oh crap," I say, and run past my mother to the bathroom. I splash my face, and rip my shirt off, looking at my pale, sweating face in the mirror. What was I dreaming about?
"You were screaming, so I came in to see what was wrong," my mom said from the doorway, "At first I thought you were dreaming, but then I heard the retching, and...."
She trailed off, worry casting a shadow over her once-pretty features.
"I was dreaming," I said, pushing my hair back from my face, "I didn't wake up until I heard you breaking down my bedroom door." I mustered a small smile, not sure if it reassured her or worried her more.
"I don't think you should go to that party tonight," she whispered, following me back to my room, "You might get sick again."
"I'm not sick mom," I assured her, "It must have just been something I was dreaming about."
I saw a glimpse of a bile-covered demon, slinking toward me. I shook my aching head.
"Really, mom, I'm fine. I just need a Tylenol and some orange juice..."
She didn’t believe me, but she didn't question me, either.
"Well alright," she sighed, "But I swear, if you look or sound at all under the weather--"
"I won't. I'm fine. Really, mom. Don't worry so much."

I lifted my head from the shimmering porcelain, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I spit a mouthful of nastiness into the water before I pulled the handle for a third time. I stood on shaky legs, grabbing my toothbrush from the sink. After the third capful of Scope, I gave up and headed back to my room to change. How many times do I have to throw up to be considered 'bulimic?'
I shimmied into my favorite jeans, thanking her boss again for calling my mom in this late. My phone buzzed on the desk, letting me know my ride was here. I grabbed it and ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on the last one. The door swung open, revealing my best friends' smiling face.
"Hey," she said, "Ready slowpoke?"
I shoved her over, and sat shotgun in her small Civic, laughing all the way to the party.

Drink in hand, I slipped between sweating teenage bodies, edging my way slowly to the bathroom.
"Excuse me," I said, bumping into person after person.
I finally sat on the toilet seat, shivering and inhaling shaky breaths. I rubbed my wrist, and chugged the last of my light beer, hoping I was drunk enough to bring it back up. I shook my head, feeling ashamed of myself. I won't, I won't, I won't, I--
I did. My hands were cold and clammy as they pushed the lever one more time. I popped a piece of gum, and tried to find my friends. How much worse do I possibly have to get before I deserve the help I so wish I had?
My friends greeted me with whoops and hollers as I made my way back over. I laughed at their smiling, wasted faces as they hugged my skinny body. I giggled when people I didn't know made a pass at me or someone else. I joked, and danced, and flirted, waiting for someone to tell me the gig was up; they knew what I was, what I did, where I had just come from.

On the way back to the car I slipped, grabbing someone's shoulder for support. We both laughed as they helped me to the car, handing me their cell phone number before shutting the Plexiglas door.
"You know," my friend slurred from the driver’s seat, "You're the happiest person I've ever met."
I smiled and looked guiltily out the window.
Yeah. I'm waiting until I can be that for myself, too.