Clara
I remember the time when a pencil sharpener was for sharpening pencils and razors were just for shaving. Now I when I find one I can dismantle it in minutes and cover my skin in blood. It's the only way I can relieve the pain, the only option I have left. I've tried everything else, nothing works, nothing can help me fight this depression.
I pull a jumper on even though it's 35 degrees outside: I need it to cover the cuts. I strip my bed and take the white sheets, with black make-up smudges covering them, Dalmatian sheets, down to the washing machine. Angie sees me and comes over to me,
"Why are you wearing a jumper? It's 35 degrees for God's sake, Clara!"
"All my other clothes are in the wash," I lie. Angie can't see them, no one can. She's eating a caramel magnum, it's so tempting to get one, no Clara, no, you fat already. Fat, so fucking fat. Why can I never be skinny, why? I look in the mirror everyday and cry. Cry because I'm ugly, cry because I'm fat, cry because I'll never be good enough. Anyway, I've nearly broken my record, just 3 more hours, and I'll have done it, 36 hours without a single calorie. And I'm still fat.
"Clara?" Angie shakes me back to reality.
"Wha- yea, um sorry, what?" I stutter.
"Do you want an ice cream?" she asks tiresomely.
"Err, no I'm fine" I'm starving. My stomach rumbles telling me to eat, Angie raises an eyebrow. I laugh it off: that was probably the fakest laugh in history. Oh dear Lord, I'm such a failure. I stuff the sheets in the washing machine trying to distract myself from myself. I have nothing to live for. The Doctor will never love me, he has River. I saw it in his time stream, so many kisses so much love. I'm just a toy for when River is not around, I'm nothing.
I wander up the stairs almost falling into my room with hunger. Stay strong; only 2 hours left, I can do this, something I can actually be proud of. Tuesday, great, time to measure my bloody waist, I always do it on Tuesday, the day before he comes, apart from I won't be going anywhere tomorrow. I grab the tape measure and force myself to look at the number: 26 inches, God damn it. I've barely lost a thing, why does God hate me so much. I stumble over to the toilet and force myself to throw up nothing but bile. I find a blade in my make up bag, carefully hidden away from prying eyes, and draw it across my wrist. Blood rolls down my arm covering my hand and trickling onto the floor, staining the already blood stained tiles. The blood mixes with tears and running make up becoming a sludgy mess, I don't care. I collapse onto the floor trying to shut out the voices and my love for one man, who isn't actually a man: the Doctor.