Half Dead

I sit on the edge of the tub while I heard my parents talking quite loudly in their bedroom. Since there aren't any doors, I'm all ears.

"I think maybe we should pull her out of school and do independent study like we talked about." my dad tries to whisper, but I still hear him.

"No, that's just running from her problems." my mom counters this in a sadden tone.

Running from my problems. Dr. Wilbur says it's toughening my skin by facing the bullies day in and day out. He says as long as they don't physically hurt me, then I'm fine. 

But, and this is a big but, mental abuse hurts worse than physical abuse. It sticks with you. It'll always be in your head that you'll never be good enough for anyone.

That's what I think.

Tell a thin girl with baby fat that she's too fat, it sticks in her head. She'll always be on a diet. Unless she has tough skin. That's what my parents are prepping me for. Tough fucking skin.

I have it, but I still have some feelings. I hate having feelings. I wish I could be a robot; if I have to live, I wanna be a robot.

Cold, hard, emotionless, robot. A piece of metal.

But, I'm a girl. A squishy, living, breathing, growing, mute girl.

"Violet?"

Enough about me. 

"Violet, did you--"

My mom stops talking as soon as she sees I'm out of the tub. My short brown hair is soaked, I have a pink towel wrapped around my body and I'm picking the finger nail polish my mom had applied over the weekend. It's purple.

"How was your bath?"

Relaxing, I say with heavy sarcasm.

"Do you feel better?"

I lie with an agreeing nod.

"Hungry?"

Always.

"Let's get you dressed."

I stand up and follow my mom to my bedroom. She does the usual check for contraband in my room, then she turns to me, "I will always check because I care about you."

I'm starting to think you don't want me to kill myself because you'll always have that guilt weighed on your head. The everlasting questions; Where did I go wrong? What could I have done? Why did she do it?

It isn't your fault, mom. You are a good mom. It's my fault. I couldn't have control. I always begged for a treat like a dog and have seconds and thirds, sometimes fifths. I even hid food in my room. It isn't your fault.

"Get dressed, honey, then come down to eat." my mom brushed her lips to my moist forehead and then left my room.

I went to my wardrobe and grabbed a t-shirt and sweats. As I head to my dresser for underwear, I see the book sitting on the dressed. My mom must've put it there.

Curiosity is always in me and I hate that as well. I hate that I want to read what else that stupid boy wrote. Something in me was screaming for me to do so. I fought it. I fought my hand as I reached for it and flipped through the pages.

It was page 46, over the writing, in a blue sharpie, he wrote; I really do think you're cute. I'm not trying to get into your skirt and tights. Maybe, instead of texting, you could instant message me? Do you do that stuff? You should, I bet you're popular on Facebook. Please don't ignore me. I could show you a good time. Talk to me, we could be friends.

No. No. No.

Get out of my life, I hate you.

I tossed the book back in it's place, it is ruined with the writing on page 46. But, I stop myself before I left the room and pull the book from the trash. I decided then that I'd write him back and politely tell him to leave me alone.


My dad stared at me as I slurred my purée beef and carrots; it's a curious stare. He wants to ask me something but he's nervous. I hate those kind of stares.

Finally I caught his eyes and scream what? at the top of my lungs, but in my eyes. Is that possible? Yes, because my dad opens his mouth.

"Why did those girls throw the smoothie at you?"

Why do you think?

My dad sighs heavily, he gets up, heads to his brief case and pops it open. He gives me a yellow notepad and blue pen, sliding it to me as he sits. I look at the pad and pen, then pick it up.

Gloria and Raven hate me because I'm fat. Gloria suggested the drain cleaner and bleach cocktail and she's mad that it didn't work. I broke her heart, shattered her hopes

I slid the notebook back, my dad reads it and sighs again. My mom snatched it off the table and reads it.

"She told you to drink that poison?" her face slowly begins to turn a red shade.

I nodded shortly and go back to sipping my beef. It's not that bad. It taste like V-8.

"You aren't fat." my dad grumbled.

My mom huffs and sighs, then a sob, and then gets up, walking away from the table. I look down at the gradient specks in our table and listen to my dad get up and go to my mom.

At the top of my lungs I scream, I'm sorry I'm nothing!


I refused the smoothies throughout the school day and even pretended to have cramps to get out of choir and physical education. I didn't want to be at school any longer, especially since Gloria and Raven were still laughing about the day before. They even laughed about how funny it was doing it in front of my mom.

They don't know that my mom cried about it on the way to school this morning. If they did know they wouldn't care. They don't have hearts. It's an empty cave living in that thing they call a chest.

After school, I manages to dodge them and made my way to the park. This would be my last day coming to the park, my mom was going to find a new place for me to walk so I wouldn't run into Gloria or Raven.

Anyway, I had the Bell Jar clutched in my hand and waited to see the stupid boy. I didn't want to say his name. I couldn't, not even in my head.

I looked around for him, but didn't see him. I let out a breath, set the book down on my spot by the tree, looking at it intently. 

I was letting my guard down by doing this. I was letting this stupid boy in. Why? I don't know. I'm crazy.

I took in a deep breath through my nose and waited. He didn't come; my mom arrived a few minutes later and I went over and climbed into the car. She looked around, craning her neck.

"How was it?"

Same old, same old.

"I figure that I'll just pick you up in front of the school for now on." my mom looks at me with a small sigh, "You okay?"

I give her a nod.

"Dr. Wilbur set up an appointment for the vocal therapy." Oh shit. "I want to know, Violet, do you want to do the therapy?"

I shook my head. She sighed again.

"Why not?"

I sigh in my own head, grab my bag and get out my note book and marker. I write in big bold letters the truth: I DON'T WANT TO TALK ANYMORE

My mom looked at it when she stopped at a stop sign. Her brows furrowing, her eyes water. Shoot, she's gonna cry. Don't cry, please. Anything but tears.

"How come?" She asked in a shaky voice.

I take the notebook and write; WHAT'S THE POINT?

My mom let out a sob, wiped her eyes and drove on. She cleared her throat, "Violet, I miss your voice. I miss your laugh."

I believe she's lying. I haven't willingly laughed in a long time, I can barely smile when I hear something funny. My only physical indication of happiness is a smirk.

"Don't you miss that?"

I shake my head.

"I'm sorry. Me and your father are still going to take you to see the therapist. We think it'd be a good idea."

You're wrong. It's a bad idea.