Bullets

Mother always told me I had big bug eyes. She threatened to “exterminate” me if I didn’t go to therapy today, so I went. Dad, as usual, said nothing.

I wait apprehensively for my file to be found before I tread cautiously into the unadorned therapy room and sit on the bright blue couch. It is the only piece of décor that stands out in the room. I remember one of the receptionists telling me that the color blue inspires calmness and peace. At the moment, I am anything but calm.

My psychiatrist tells me that I “must” begin making my own decisions since adulthood is quickly approaching. “Pretty soon you’ll be heading off to college where you’re going to have to choose your own classes and teachers and what you’re going to eat for dinner.” Honestly, her words scare me and I don’t want to listen anymore, but I think about them for a while and come up with two answers, though I only tell her one. I put on a little show.

“I know, I know, but it’s hard. Decisions are already notoriously difficult and I’m just afraid of choosing to do the wrong thing,” I say to her. Yet, in my mind, I had already come to decision and I know exactly what I want to do with my life. Whether she, or anyone else for that matter, would approve is another story.

The drive home is longer and lonelier than usual, but I am ironically relieved to find that no one else is home. Mother and Dad are still at work and my older brother is probably spending time with his high school friends that he hasn’t seen since going off to university.

I take advantage of the opportunity and blast the most obnoxious rock music I can find in my library, hoping to piss off the neighbors who think my appearance has seen better days. They always whisper that my make-up is too “gothic” for a teenage girl, that I would look more respectable if I would just stick to my natural hair color, how I should dress more like a “young woman” instead of a want-to-be rock star rebel. I turn up the woofers so that I can feel the house thump along with the bass of Sex Pistol’s God Save the Queen.

For the hundredth time today, my stomach threatens to knife its way out of my body, so I warily make my way to the refrigerator, gingerly pull open the heavy door, and peer inside. There’s a rather seductive piece of triple chocolate mousse cake on top shelf, but the deep pot of macaroni and cheese stares expectantly at me while the veggie burger continuously chants my name. Without missing a beat, every bit of food in that refrigerator turns against me and launches their attack. I smash the refrigerator shut and seek shelter in my room. It’s too much, I don’t know what to do, there are lines of water running down my face, and all I can think about are the number of calories and carbohydrates I almost stuffed into my mouth and the pounds I could have gained.

Luckily enough, I am good at making small decisions in the moment, so I decide to display another act of self-control and take a nap. My body has fallen into this vicious cycle of lethargy even though I sleep as much as I can, but people at school have noticed and teachers ask me if I’m okay. I’d like to think I’m also relatively creative, so I always come up with an ever-changing explanation.

“I’m sick with a virus.” “Too much television.” “I was up all night doing homework.”

I can easily pretend I don’t need food when I am asleep, but of course there is a catch: I constantly have to deal with the nightmares. Every time I wake up, there is strong sense of dread coiled in my empty stomach. Never do I remember what these dream are about, all I have left is this feeling that makes me want to retch endlessly into the toilet already used to my stomach acids. Imagine, you’re skating on what you triple checked was thick ice; there are tens of other people around you whizzing by with smiles on their faces. You didn’t put your smile on today, but you almost feel relaxed and your mind isn’t racing like it usually is. But there’s a crack in the ice beneath you and you fall through. The water is immobilizing and blinding, you want to breath, you swim back to the surface, but there is no exit. The people on the surface continue skating, breathing. No one notices that you are going to die. That panic is what I feel.

The sound of a familiar piano progression wakes me from my slumber. The singer repeats the words “personal responsibility” and they become dull knives that cut through my skull. It’s Archive’s Bullets, the band that He introduced me to; it was the song that played when we had our first kiss. This time, it is my heart that gains weight and it hurts to listen to it, but I can’t bring myself to get up and change the stupid song. As I lay there, I realize that I have made the wrong decision, but it’s too late and I can’t stop myself. Before I become fully aware of what I am about to do, I find myself frantically searching for the eraser I usually keep on the nightstand. It isn’t there. I shove the piece of furniture aside to check if it fell behind it, knocking over my lithium pills and antidepressants over in the process. Relief washes over me when my eyes fall upon the generic, eroded, pink eraser and I quickly snatch it up from the floor.

By this time, I stop thinking reasonably and I begin to carry out the ritual without an inkling of hesitation. With my fingers wrapped tightly around the weapon, I turn over my left wrist and I wish direly the little eraser could remove my existence as easily as it could erase pencil marks on paper. Like all the other times before, I try and erase myself, but it never works. I begin to rub it diligently against my wrist. It burns instead, but I am temporarily satisfied. My skin slowly starts to peel away and mingles with the eraser shavings, but I don’t stop. Not until my arm feels numb. Still, it isn’t over; the last step is to run the wound under cool water to feel on last sting before putting on my sweater to cover the collection of scars. I am reminded of what I did whenever my sweater rubs against the sensitive skin and for a split second, I feel guilty. But I always end up doing it again; I have become addicted.

A long and boisterous laugh comes from the closet before it begins to speak. “You should probably go and buy bigger clothes,” it says. “None of the jeans in me fit you anymore.” I choose not to argue even though what it said has made me angry, but it keeps on going. “You know, no matter how much you starve yourself, you’ll never be skinny. You might as well just kill yourself now; you’re so pathetic.”

It is a shame that even in my own room, I find no peace. Determining my room was no longer safe; I leave to seek peace, or at least a distraction, in the garage. The music has ended by now and the house is dead silent save for my footsteps. Mother had instructed Dad to paint it yellow when we first moved in. “It’s a happy color,” Mother said, but I thought it sounded funny coming from her because it seems like she has never been happy. How would she even know what happiness is? Nine years later, the walls are still a jaunty, buttery yellow despite the humidity of the room, yet I am the one that is melting.

I quickly locate the medium sized container of One Shot Liquid Drain Cleaner that guaranteed to “drain” all my problems away. I had studied the bottle many times before, obsessively reading the list of ingredients. “Contains 91% Sulfuric Acid.” “Contains lye.” “Keep locked away from children and animals.” I bring it to the kitchen and lay it by the sink before taking a can of cola out the refrigerator and pouring it into a large cup. As I bite my lip in nervousness, I delicately place my cup in the near left corner of the sink and open the faucet. The water flows smoothly into the drain, and I unscrew the drain cleaner’s cap and messily pour in the cerulean liquid.

Slowly, I clean up my mess and put everything back in its place. There is nothing interesting to watch on television, but I decide to leave it on MTV in hopes that they would someday play music videos again. With the contaminated cup in my right hand, I simply stare at the television for a little while, waiting until it just felt like the right time. It didn’t take long and soon enough I was bringing the cup to my lips and taking a large sip, then another one, and another one. I only stop when I feel my body resist. My throat feels like it’s getting taller and skinnier, my empty stomach swishes around as it tries to pure the toxin out to no avail, and this time it is my ears and my nose that burn.

I panic when I can no longer breath and I feel myself shutting down. The cup lays long forgotten on the floor and I shut my eyes and lean back onto the comfortable couch.

Mother had always called me stubborn, but I like to think that once I make a decision, there is no turning back.