Status: On hiatus.
Breaking Down The Walls
Electrified
“How was your day at school?” Desiree’s mother, Sara, asks as the short teenager shuts the door behind her after she slip insides, hoping to remain unseen. She internally sighs. Fuck.
“It was fine,” Desiree says shortly, brushing past her mother and locking herself in her room. Sara gazes after her worridly, but makes no attempt to force her daughter to speak. Inside her room, Desiree rushes to the mirror, peeling off her shirt and staring wordlessly at her reflection. Disheartened once again, she wonders where she could have gone wrong. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch today, so what was the problem? How did I let myself get so fat? The redhead angrily turns away from the mirror and walks toward her nightstand, stroking the cordless phone that was atop it. She picks it up, blue eyes widening as she recalls the seven digit number it would take to change everything. No! She stiffens and slams the phone back down on the receiver. Desiree wasn’t that close. Not yet.
“Dinner will be ready shortly!” Her mother announces, interrupting the younger female’s inner musings.
“Okay!” Desiree calls back, questioning why she feels so shitty. Maybe it’s because you don’t have any friends, a negative voice says, speaking up from the back of her mind again. Of course I do, she says, defending herself. Like who? The voice sneers at her. Like…Lauren, she shoots back after pondering the inquiry for a moment or two. She asked you for a pencil. That doesn’t count as friendship. Desiree ignores the voice and squeezes her eyes shut. No matter how lonely she felt, she wouldn’t cry over it. Fatass. Baby. Worthless. The voice keeps chanting and chanting its mantra over and over again, but she doesn’t care. She hears it every day without fail. Soon the decadent aroma of beef stew wafts its way into her room, and Desiree can’t control the wave of guilt that crashes over her. Her mother had made her favourite meal for her, and she didn’t even want to eat it, couldn’t eat it, if she didn’t want to punish herself later. The adolescent trudges out of her room, stomach grumbling as she nears the kitchen table. “Thank you, Mom…this looks great,” she mumbles, forcing the corners of her mouth to turn up into a poor semblance of a smile. Her mother just beams, oblivious.
“I made it because I knew it was your favourite,” Sara trills proudly, as though making Desiree a meal she loves is some great accomplishment. She pours her daughter a huge bowl of the stew, and Desiree inhales sharply. If she ate all of that, she would surely blow up like a balloon, but if she didn’t; her mother would become suspicious. I guess tonight will be the night I break that two month streak. The two females eat in silence, Sara occasionally looking up at her daughter and smiling warmly. Desiree just stares into the depths of her now-empty bowl.
Eventually, she asks, “may I be excused?” and her mother nods in affirmation. She flees to her sanctuary and her prison: her bedroom. Once there, the redheaded girl scrambles over to her mirror, going weak in the knees at the sight of her reflection. I failed. I failed. She straightens up, seeming eerily calm as she searches her underwear drawer. Got it. Her razor gleams, and she stares at it a moment before steeling her resolve and attacking her hips until her legs are stained a pretty ruby shade. Desiree watches the blood run, unconcerned, unfeeling, ignoring the throbbing in her hips. She is broken, worthless, a joke, and for now, she is content with that. She will deal with the fallout tomorrow. After a few minutes pass, she goes into her bathroom and methodically washes her battle wounds, not even wincing at the pain anymore. She is stoic, a robot. She is nothing to anyone. Changing into an old nightshirt and a pair of boxers, she climbs into bed, making a failed effort at doing her homework. Frustrated, she slams her math book shut and pads into the kitchen, snatching the bottle of sleeping pills and downing two. She needs these to combat her incurable tiredness. Clambering back into her bed, she switches off her lamp and pulls the covers over her head. Even after all these years, she is still terrified of what could be lurking in the dark.
Morning comes too early, Desiree notes, squinting as the sun shines directly into her eyes. She draws her curtains closed and looks down at her cuts. They stopped bleeding. She gingerly changes into a regular pair of panties and ripped demin skinnies, gasping at the familiar pain. Stripping off her nightshirt, she pulls on a Victoria’s Secret’s bra and a stretchy gray v-neck. She hurridly straightens her awful bedhead and brushes her teeth, making weird faces at herself in the mirror. She applies black mascara neatly and just a bit of eyeliner on her top lashline. Once she finally wrestles her fringe into place, she slips her feet into her beloved pair of black Converse and grabs her backpack. Dulaney High is only two blocks away, well within walking distance, and so she sprints there, eager to avoid all of the people who flood the hallway. She jumps up the stairs two at a time so she can hang out in the chorus room for about fifteen minutes before everyone else will arrive. Except she’s not alone, Desiree realizes as she hears the sound of a jagged tenor voice coming from the center of the room, along with piano accompaniment. Against the better part of her nature, Desiree peeks around the door, although she knows she shouldn’t. There at the piano sits Alex Gaskarth, his fingers effortlessly commanding the keys, his mouth open as he holds a note. She catches her breath, and, just like the day before, their eyes meet.
“What are you doing here?” Alex inquires sharply, standing up and making his way over to her. Desiree struggles to choke out a few words. At last, she spits something out.
“You’re pretty.”
“What?” Alex appears taken aback, and Desiree is, too. She hadn’t meant to say that! Whirling around in a fit of panic, she stumbles out of the room, down the stairs, out the door, and back home, where she informs her mother that she has caught the stomach bug that’s been going around. Collapsing in her bed, she pulls the covers up and over her head, hoping to get over this latest humiliation by tomorrow.
“It was fine,” Desiree says shortly, brushing past her mother and locking herself in her room. Sara gazes after her worridly, but makes no attempt to force her daughter to speak. Inside her room, Desiree rushes to the mirror, peeling off her shirt and staring wordlessly at her reflection. Disheartened once again, she wonders where she could have gone wrong. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch today, so what was the problem? How did I let myself get so fat? The redhead angrily turns away from the mirror and walks toward her nightstand, stroking the cordless phone that was atop it. She picks it up, blue eyes widening as she recalls the seven digit number it would take to change everything. No! She stiffens and slams the phone back down on the receiver. Desiree wasn’t that close. Not yet.
“Dinner will be ready shortly!” Her mother announces, interrupting the younger female’s inner musings.
“Okay!” Desiree calls back, questioning why she feels so shitty. Maybe it’s because you don’t have any friends, a negative voice says, speaking up from the back of her mind again. Of course I do, she says, defending herself. Like who? The voice sneers at her. Like…Lauren, she shoots back after pondering the inquiry for a moment or two. She asked you for a pencil. That doesn’t count as friendship. Desiree ignores the voice and squeezes her eyes shut. No matter how lonely she felt, she wouldn’t cry over it. Fatass. Baby. Worthless. The voice keeps chanting and chanting its mantra over and over again, but she doesn’t care. She hears it every day without fail. Soon the decadent aroma of beef stew wafts its way into her room, and Desiree can’t control the wave of guilt that crashes over her. Her mother had made her favourite meal for her, and she didn’t even want to eat it, couldn’t eat it, if she didn’t want to punish herself later. The adolescent trudges out of her room, stomach grumbling as she nears the kitchen table. “Thank you, Mom…this looks great,” she mumbles, forcing the corners of her mouth to turn up into a poor semblance of a smile. Her mother just beams, oblivious.
“I made it because I knew it was your favourite,” Sara trills proudly, as though making Desiree a meal she loves is some great accomplishment. She pours her daughter a huge bowl of the stew, and Desiree inhales sharply. If she ate all of that, she would surely blow up like a balloon, but if she didn’t; her mother would become suspicious. I guess tonight will be the night I break that two month streak. The two females eat in silence, Sara occasionally looking up at her daughter and smiling warmly. Desiree just stares into the depths of her now-empty bowl.
Eventually, she asks, “may I be excused?” and her mother nods in affirmation. She flees to her sanctuary and her prison: her bedroom. Once there, the redheaded girl scrambles over to her mirror, going weak in the knees at the sight of her reflection. I failed. I failed. She straightens up, seeming eerily calm as she searches her underwear drawer. Got it. Her razor gleams, and she stares at it a moment before steeling her resolve and attacking her hips until her legs are stained a pretty ruby shade. Desiree watches the blood run, unconcerned, unfeeling, ignoring the throbbing in her hips. She is broken, worthless, a joke, and for now, she is content with that. She will deal with the fallout tomorrow. After a few minutes pass, she goes into her bathroom and methodically washes her battle wounds, not even wincing at the pain anymore. She is stoic, a robot. She is nothing to anyone. Changing into an old nightshirt and a pair of boxers, she climbs into bed, making a failed effort at doing her homework. Frustrated, she slams her math book shut and pads into the kitchen, snatching the bottle of sleeping pills and downing two. She needs these to combat her incurable tiredness. Clambering back into her bed, she switches off her lamp and pulls the covers over her head. Even after all these years, she is still terrified of what could be lurking in the dark.
Morning comes too early, Desiree notes, squinting as the sun shines directly into her eyes. She draws her curtains closed and looks down at her cuts. They stopped bleeding. She gingerly changes into a regular pair of panties and ripped demin skinnies, gasping at the familiar pain. Stripping off her nightshirt, she pulls on a Victoria’s Secret’s bra and a stretchy gray v-neck. She hurridly straightens her awful bedhead and brushes her teeth, making weird faces at herself in the mirror. She applies black mascara neatly and just a bit of eyeliner on her top lashline. Once she finally wrestles her fringe into place, she slips her feet into her beloved pair of black Converse and grabs her backpack. Dulaney High is only two blocks away, well within walking distance, and so she sprints there, eager to avoid all of the people who flood the hallway. She jumps up the stairs two at a time so she can hang out in the chorus room for about fifteen minutes before everyone else will arrive. Except she’s not alone, Desiree realizes as she hears the sound of a jagged tenor voice coming from the center of the room, along with piano accompaniment. Against the better part of her nature, Desiree peeks around the door, although she knows she shouldn’t. There at the piano sits Alex Gaskarth, his fingers effortlessly commanding the keys, his mouth open as he holds a note. She catches her breath, and, just like the day before, their eyes meet.
“What are you doing here?” Alex inquires sharply, standing up and making his way over to her. Desiree struggles to choke out a few words. At last, she spits something out.
“You’re pretty.”
“What?” Alex appears taken aback, and Desiree is, too. She hadn’t meant to say that! Whirling around in a fit of panic, she stumbles out of the room, down the stairs, out the door, and back home, where she informs her mother that she has caught the stomach bug that’s been going around. Collapsing in her bed, she pulls the covers up and over her head, hoping to get over this latest humiliation by tomorrow.