This story takes place before Bionic Island, and Leo and Tasha aren't here. Their buying new undergarments for Leo in Italy.
Momma said, you a pretty girl, what's in your head, it doesn't matter.
These lyrics course over and over again in my brain. My smarts are not needed on the team. Nothing I say matters to anyone. They say knowledge is power. My knowledge doesn't make me more than a nerdy freak.
"Oh, LORD, please tell me you're not listening to Beyonce."
"Is there a problem with listening to a woman that makes $115 billion a year?"
"I didn't say there was a problem-just like how I didn't ask for your nerdy factoid. Why don't you tell your other little nerd friends-but wait, they are more popular than you."
Bree is a demon. Sure, Adam throws me around like a piece of trash, but bruises fade. Bree is my personal tormentor. She says things that gets so deep under my skin that it cuts a vein. Every. Last. Time.I can't get a break. I feel like a doll, and my house is folding in on me. Folding, folding, folding….
I don't know how to respond. I can't respond because I'm a doll, trapped in my own house.
Water is soothing. It's calm. It drips off my face as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I practice a smile, the one that stays on. The fake one. The smile is getting old, because there are cracks in the foundation. I can't smile forever, and my limbs can prove it. My skin and razor have been friends since the beginning of the year.
It started out harmless. I saw it on tumblr and it said that self-mutilation helps them cope. It worked. It is so addicting, controlling what happens to you and how you do it. I am my own mural. I have designs on each arm which keeps me at peace. It makes me feel at bay because I am my own storm, and I won't crash my own ship.
Weeks are snailing by, a calendar on my arm. Nobody talks to me. Fridays are Trent days. He makes his own art across my face and stomach. Unlike me, he takes credit for them and is payed with laughter and humiliation to my expense.
My tears are the goo that the snailing weeks leave behind. The cover my face with salty layers, only to remind me of the song. Plastic smiles and denial can only take you so far/ Then you break when the fake facade leaves you in the dark/ You left with shattered mirrors and the shards of a beautiful girl
My facade is over and done with. I'm so tired, or being picked on and I'm so tired of being embarrassed by everyone just for laughs. Where do laughs get you? A scream tears through my throat and rage pulses through my fists to kiss the mirror. Shattered mirror? Check. Shards of beauty? Been done before 2015. This feels like power. A strange kind of power that causes a laugh to bubble in me. I feel free.
A happy, real, smile pastes itself over my mouth all during dinner, flinging off comments from Adam and Bree alike. When you're alone all by yourself/ And you're lying in your bed/ Reflection stares right into you / Are you happy with yourself? / You stripped away the masquerade/ The illusion has been shed / Are you happy with yourself? / Are you happy with yourself?
After dinner, I feel empty. Like, all my giddiness has gone to waste. There is no such thing as true happiness, as long as I live, and I've just tasted happiness. It's satisfying. I loved how it coursed through me, reminding me of how it felt to be Mission Leader before my depression took over.
I look at my wrists again-the place where the razor is most familiar. My razor gets even more familiar while I shredding through my vein. Are you happy with yourself? Are you happy with yourself? Yes.
I just threw this together, so yeah….
