Half Dead

A teenage boy's entire teenage years are spent trying to get laid. The sad, pathetic, smart boys, at least. I wouldn't know, really, but I've seen my share of lifetime movies. I've read books, I've googled certain things.

I am 16 years old, I've had my fair share of crushes. I've googled porn before, I've gotten those spam emails. I've been curious about a boy's anatomy. 

I was 11 years old when my mother gave me the talk. By then, I knew all there was to know about sex. In fact, I was sexually assaulted at my Catholic school by an older boy. I knew what it was, it only took me a while to figure out it was an assault. Still, it didn't deter my need to be touched.

Okay, 11 is a bit young, but what do you expect from a girl who sees girls her own age being felt up in the halls of such a sanctuary? I wanted that. I craved that! I wanted to be wanted.

Now, not so much. 

I figure, no attention is good now.

You see, when people act as if you're invisible and you go against it, it only hurts you in the end. So, I shut up. Yes, on purpose, and I needed some sort of positive and sure-fire result.

One girl, who has picked on me since we met back in grade school, she told me to mix drain cleaner and bleach. She told me to mix this deadly cocktail because I should kill myself. "Kill yourself, porker, no one likes you anyway."

I took Gloria's advice and drank enough to get our maid fired and me in the hospital. 

The doctors had to pump my fat stomach and put me on suicide watch. I had some surgery, I had to wear a neck brace, and I refused to speak. I really couldn't, I still pretend I can't.

I even eat my food blended up still, because I don't want to appear as if my throat is fine. That was over a year ago, and it's working just fine.

Gloria still heckles me about it. She calls me failure. She calls me anorexic whore. She laughs at me. She calls me Girl, Interrupted. Gloria thinks she's so clever.

I hate Gloria. She thinks the sun shines right out her fucking ass. If I had a pole, that's where I'd stick it; straight up her flat, rich ass.

Shine that, Glory Hallelujah.

But, I must put away my need for blood, because I don't need Gloria's. I need my own. I am not a homicidal manic; I believe keeping them alive is torture enough. They have to go through life pretending they're happy, when secretly, they're just as suicidal as I am.

"Dr. Wilbur would like to meet with you next week, Violet." My mother's voice is harmonic, it snaps me from my thoughts and rambles of Glory Hallelujah.

I can't respond... Rather, I'd rather not. I don't. I don't even have the will to. I don't even remember what my voice sounds like. I do remember the last words I spoke: "It burns!"

"He wants you to say something, Violet." She continues, her beautiful voice... Me so envious.

Dear Over-Protective-Mother-Of-Mine:
Leave me alone. Shut your mouth. The words are too beautiful to ignore. Send me away, light me on fire, because I will not speak to or for anyone. I am no show pony!

"Violet, did you hear me?" 

I look at my mother, with her yellow, rich, beautiful hair that bounces. Her big blue eyes that I wish I had. Her pouty lips that are more collectively attractive than my own.

I hate you, Over Protective Mother. Why do you get to be beautiful? Why are you naturally thin? Why did it take me drinking drain cleaner to get a small enough waist? Why did it have to resort to me unsuccessfully dying to be Kate Moss's twin?

I give mother a nod, lying right to her face. I won't talk to Dr. Wilbur, even if he offers me a Twinkie. I've been dying for a moist, spongy, cream filled snack cake. A yellow one. A Twinkie.

But, the word alone makes me cringe, it was a nickname. I hate Twinkies. I love Twinkies.

"Will you speak?" My father has hopeful eyes, set in a handsome face.

No, dad. I'm sorry, but I won't speak to Dr. Wilbur. Even if he has a Twinkie. I see the look, you know I want one, as much as I hate them.

So daddy, I'll give you a shrug. How's that? It's not a yes. It's a shrug, Hopefully-Handsome-Father.


First period English is always the same. I'm hungry. I think about food.

Not Twinkies, more like French fries. Chips. Something crunchy.

I look down at my text book and read French Fry instead of the French Revolution. Lays over something about Napoleon Bonaparte on another page.

Hungry Violet. She wants to be fed. But when lunch arrives, she is hidden in the bathroom. She dreams about food. She dreams about being normal.

But, Violet won't eat, she won't be normal. After school, she'll head away from school towards the park. The park where her parents ordered to pick her up to keep away from Gloria and her clique.

Doesn't make it any less lonely.