"Hey, Chloe!" Someone shouted from across the classroom. Chloe closed her eyes, opened them, and closed them again.
"What?" She asked as the dark-haired girl leaned over the desk, a snarl on her face.
"How was your summer? Did you go on holiday with Mummy and Daddy?" The girl asked, well aware that there was no father in Chloe's life, her expression quickly changing into a snide grin.
Blue. Her eyes were blue. Like robin's eggs and the sky and Mum's eyeshadow. Blue like the ocean and all of its infinite molecules and atoms, spreading for a distance that's almost incomprehensible-
"Shut up, Ava," Chloe answered, struggling to keep her voice even. She almost went dead with anger, clenched her fists under the table because keep it all in, keep it all in.
"Poor little Chloe, doing everything wrong. You're a freak," The girl spat, and Chloe, desperate, sucked in a deep breath as the pale-skinned girl swivelled back around in her chair.
I'm not a freak. I'm not a freak. I'm not a freak. I'm not a-
freak.
—
"Are you going to eat anything, Chloe?" Ange asked a few mornings later. Chloe stared down at the pancakes and fruits her mother had piled onto her plate, and although her stomach growled, she shook her head,
"Not hungry."
She was, though. She was desperately hungry. How long had it been since she'd last eaten? Two days? Three days?
She wasn't sure why she had stopped eating. Not really.
Maybe it was to lose weight. To see the bones hidden beneath folds of whitened skin.
"You didn't eat dinner last night, though," Ange said, and Chloe shrugged.
"I don't know. I feel kind of sick, now that you mention it," she explained, rubbing his concave stomach for effect. Ange, however, didn't seem convinced.
"Just have some toast. Or drink some juice. Maybe that will make you feel better," Ange suggested, her voice breaking and growing higher.
"I'm really okay, Mum. Promise."
Chloe stood up and walked out of the kitchen to collect her school bag before her mother could say anything else, her eyes burning with uncried tears.
Maybe, just maybe, if she didn't eat, the voices inside would starve, and she could be happy.
—
Chloe stared at herself in the mirror.
She was pale. Her skin had grown pasty. Her hair was long and straggly, her eyes looked sunken and hollowed. Her eyebrows were thin as well, at least similar to her slimming face, and her school uniform suddenly looked too big to be hanging off her narrow, jutting frame.
"I'm fine," she said to herself, thoughts of dragging pin-sharp metal across desperately vulnerable skin suddenly overtaking her mind, disorienting her.
"I'm fine," she said again, straightening her posture. Her adam's apple stuck out of her throat like a knife. She gulped.
"I'm fine," she yelled, resting her hands on the edges of the bathroom sink, dropping her head and drawing in great mouthfuls of air.
Her breath grew hoarse as she sat down on the frigid bathroom floor and thought about life, because it was so goddamn transient, and it confused her to an impossible extent. She was bewildered to the point where she felt like her head was going to explode and her hair was going to fall out and his brain would burn under white-hot flame because it was torturing her.
She did not sleep that night.
—
Angel Goddard was not happy.
She had just gotten off the phone with Chloe' school, who had called to complain that Chloe has not turned in any homework for weeks, and she has been asked to leave the classroom multiple times.
This wasn't Chloe, Ange was sure. Her Chloe was not rude or insolent, and was pedantic about finishing every last thing on her to-do list before allowing herself to relax. But if this wasn't Chloe, who was it? Ange stood in Chloe's doorframe that night, just watching her sleep. Watching her chest rise and fall, watching her unconsciously rub her face with her hands. What had happened to her little girl? Where had she gone?
—
"Chloe," Her friend Sophie whispered the next day in Maths.
"Yeah?"
"Do you have the answer to question four?" She replied, looking desperate and agitated. Chloe was about to reply when she saw the daunting figure of Mr Thomas approach.
"Were you giving Sophie the answers, Chloe?" He asked, his voice dripping with disapproval.
"Yes," Chloe said simply. Truly, she was in no mood for any sort of arguments.
"Yes Sir. It's time you learnt some manners. I will take none of your childish nonsense today, Goddard. Say anything of the sort again and you'll be booked with detentions for the rest of the term. And while we're on that same desperate topic, might you care to tell me why you didn't turn in my most recent homework on dividing fractions?"
(Eyes. Chloe couldn't help but become distracted by them, the softness of them, the hardened edges, Really, it was all quite poetic.)
"Chloe," The teacher said slowly, staring down at the girl. Chloe looked as if she hadn't even processed anything the Maths teacher had said.
"Chloe!" He snapped again. God, pull yourself together.
"I'm sorry," Chloe began, "I-I-I really feel quite faint," She stated, her eyes glassy. A thin layer of sweat coated her forehead.
"Chloe," Sophie breathed, reaching out for her arm.
"Sophie," The teacher muttered. "Don't touch her. As for you-" he said, gesturing to Chloe- "Go to the school nurse. Now."
Chloe left without another word.
—
She didn't go to the school nurse. No, she went to the girls' bathroom, where she sat on the sinks and, for the first time in days, ate an apple her mother had put in her packed lunch that morning.
And then, as she looked down at her bony stomach and hands made of nothing more than flabs of pallid skin, felt the sudden need to weep.
—
"Chloe!" Ange exclaimed as soon as she entered the kitchen. She had just gotten home from school and dropped her bag at the bottom of the stairs.
"Hey."
"What happened? I just got a call from the school, saying you didn't turn up for your last lesson. Oh, I'm so glad you're okay, I've been so worried," she said, wrapping her arms around her daughter.
"I felt ill. I went to the nurse, she said I could come home. They must have gotten mixed up."
"Ill?" Ange asked, kind of tentatively, turning her gaze back to her daughter.
"Yeah. I feel fine now, though," she answered, and her throat hurt and her wrists throbbed and she just wanted to feel okay again.
"Good," Ange replied, sitting down and offering her daughter another hug.
—
After her mother had gone to sleep that night, Chloe punched her mirror. She couldn't explain what made her do it. Maybe it was because she had lost all sense of of control: and, maybe, all sense of self (she didn't even know who he was anymore.)
She picked up a piece of shattered glass. It was eerily beautiful, and when she drew it across her wrist, there was only blood, blood, blood. She focused her attention on the pain- God, the pain- and she was feeling, but she wasn't, she really wasn't, and it was all terribly confusing.
But then she remembered her mother, whose love had kept her breathing and walking and cutting and starving, and she was able to carry herself to bed and fall asleep.
—
"I'm fine," Chloe said, again and again.
She wondered if time would slow down if she were to fall off the roof.
—
"Chloe," Mr Thomas asked the second Chloe walked inside the classroom.
"Yes, Sir?"
"I would like a word after class."
Chloe breathed. In, out. In, out.
"Okay, Sir."
Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.
"Sir? You wanted to speak with me?" Chloe said after all the other students had left. Her teacher stood up from his desk and walked over to lean in front of it.
"Yes, Chloe. I was wondering what that-fainting episode- a few days ago was all about."
"Episode, Sir?" Chloe asked, suddenly lightheaded.
"You know exactly what I mean by that," Her teacher said smoothly. Chloe turned away, closed her eyes, and counted to three (she would stay calm; she would not panic.)
"I was exhausted, Sir. I hadn't been able to go to sleep the night before."
"No?"
"No, Sir."
The teacher paused with his work and turned to face the distraught student. He noticed how her cheekbones suddenly looked very jagged, and something in her stomach churned as she sucked in a short breath.
"Well, I don't need you to act so delirious in my class again. Perhaps you should eat more," Mr Thomas suggested, tone cool and collected. Chloe sucked in her breath.
"I've been eating plenty, Sir," she whispered, gulping. Her teacher raised his eyebrows.
"Rest assured, I'll contact your mother next time. You can go now."
Chloe didn't need to be told twice.
—
Hollow.
Maybe that was what she was trying to be.
—
Chloe's hand hurt like hell.
It was okay, she decided, to be in pain. It distracted her from everything she didn't do.
—
"Chloe," Sophie said tentatively, sitting down beside her blank-faced friend.
"It's been a while. Are you mad at me?" She asked, biting her lower lip. Chloe sniffed.
"No. Why would I be?"
Sophie looked close to tears.
"You're so...detached. I worry about you," she mumbled, picking at the skin around her nails.
Chloe imagined herself in a straightjacket, confined to nothing but herself, and she shivered.
"I'm fine."
Fine. Fine. Fine fine fine fine fine fine.
Sophie took one of Chloe's hands in her own. Sophie's skin was warm and soft and Chloe closed her eyes, trying to teach herself to remember how to breathe.
"What have you done to your fingers?" Sophie whispered, and tears streamed down her cheeks and onto the bruises and scabs that cloaked Chloe's knuckles. She looked away, not daring to let her see the emotion that was written on her face.
"Nothing."
"Have you gone to see the nurse? Chloe, what happened?" She asked, running a gentle finger over one of the bruises. Chloe squirmed and tucked her hand back up her sleeve.
"Nothing, Sophie."
Her voice was icy. Frigid. Sophie let out a shaky sigh and disappeared, leaving Chloe feeling more alone than ever.
—
Chloe reached her lowest possible point when the first snow of the winter fell.
She hadn't eaten in what seemed like months. She had resorted to avoiding her mother at all costs, for her appearance was, in her mind, disgusting. Her bones stuck out everywhere. Her skin was yellowed and pasty. Her hair was thin and spare. Her teeth were no longer their pristine white. She had been staying most weeks with her oblivious grandmother, claiming that Ange worked too much to stay at home with her. She had broken her mother's heart.
She was, also, going insane.
She laughed deliriously to herself when no one was watching. She ran through her grandmother's hallways at night, not stopping until she had collapsed and she honestly thought she was going to die, right then and there.
She liked the feeling of her body hitting the floor. She liked the feeling of reaching limits. She no longer felt the need to push them.
She was losing her mind, and no one noticed.
—
Chloe first went to her mother on a particularly fretful night during the Christmas holiday. Her grandmother was in hospital for a hip replacement, so she had been forced back into her old house. Ange had tried so hard- taken the whole week off work, pizza on the first night, bowling yesterday, and Chloe so wanted to enjoy but she couldn't. Her mother knew her so well, she would be able to tell immediately that something sinister was going on. So Chloe couldn't let her in.
It was four o'clock in the morning and she was depressed. Every breath was painful; every movement was agony.
She wanted to die. God, she wanted to die.
She knocked at her mother's bedroom door, makeup off, cheeks red, and hair more disheveled than ever.
It took less than ten seconds for Ange to answer.
"Chloe?" she asked, her expression unreadable. And then, as her eyes traveled down Chloe's body, "Chloe."
"Mum," Chloe wheezed. "Mum, Mum, Mum," she mumbled, closing her eyes, opening them, unable to focus. "Mum, Mum, Mum."
Ange stared at her daughter, mouth open ever-so-slightly, and she gently grabbed Chloe's shoulder, leading her inside. Her daughter was almost unrecognisable. It was winter, so Ange hadn't questioned the baggy jumpers and jeans, but she could see why now. Her pyjama shirt rode up, exposing her jutting hip bones and concave stomach, her bony wrists reaching out for her mother's arms. Chloe began to cough frantically, her head lolling from side to side.
"Chloe," Ange said, and then, a little more kindly, a little more softly, "Chloe."
Chloe stopped her frantic movements.
"I'm crazy. I'm crazy. I'm out of my mind, Mum. Crazy. Out of my mind. I'm lost."
Ange nodded slowly and walked into her ensuite. Chloe heard the tap turn on, then off. Her mother walked back into the room, offering her the glass and placing her hand on her thin arm comfortingly.
"Drink this. Now."
"I want to die. Will this kill me?" Chloe asked softly. Ange stared at her in shock. What was she supposed to say? She hadn't seen her daughter in weeks, Chloe had refused.
"No. Drink up."
"I want to die," Chloe groaned, sitting down on one of Ange's chairs and running her fingers through her thinned hair. "I want to die. I want to die. I don't want to be here." She moaned, scratching at her face. Ange pulled her hands away from her cheeks, waiting several moments before letting them go.
"Drink."
Finally, she drank the water, and her eyelids began to droop.
"I'm sorry, Mum. I'm so sorry."
—
When Chloe awoke in her mother's bed, she felt ready to throw up. But, surprisingly, feeling a little less ready to catapult herself off a very tall bridge.
"Sweetheart?" The voice surprised Chloe, who hadn't realised that there was anyone else in the room, let alone in the same bed. Her mother lay next to her, as if she had been watching her sleep.
"What am I doing here?"
"You came in last night. You were upset."
Chloe tried to sit up, arms wobbling slightly beneath her.
"I'm fine. I'm going back to my room."
"You didn't sound fine last night, Chloe. You didn't look fine either. You've lost so much weight, and Chloe," Ange finally let a tear escape and trickle down her cheek. "I saw, Chloe. I was getting you into bed, I saw what you've been doing to yourself, sweetheart."
Chloe closed her eyes and lay back down on the bed. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and searched for the pointy bones that stuck out of her back. When she found them, she relaxed, as if reminded that she was strong.
—
"Eat."
"Eat."
It was a command. Chloe looked down at her plate that was piled high with food, sniffing.
"I'm not hungry."
Ange rolled her eyes, dragging a chair back and sitting next to her daughter.
"Don't lie to me."
Chloe smiled slightly, her lips cracking in the process.
"I'm not hungry, Mum."
"Sweetheart," Ange said pleadingly, her voice cracking, and Chloe's stomach dropped. See what you're doing to her? The one person who has always loved you. She's been with you no matter what, and this is how you treat her?
Chloe looked down at her stick-sized legs, at her bony fingers, at the scars that covered her hands and wrists- and she reached for the fork. She stuck it in the mashed potato, and, wincing, swallowed it.
Ange stared at Chloe, straight into her brilliant hazel eyes- her own eyes- and she realized that she had failed. She had failed herself, and failed her daughter so badly that she had to beg for every spoonful of food Chloe would take.
God, she was stupid.
"Why don't you want to eat?" Ange asked, her question cutting, unintentionally. Chloe stared at the ceiling, then back down to her hands, which were tangled up in each other.
"I don't know-"
"Truthfully."
"I wanted to starve them. Not me."
Chloe winced at her own words.
Ange sucked in a breath. Of all possible answers, this was not what she had been expecting.
"Them?" Her voice was quiet. Caring. Chloe carded her hands through her hair and, for a moment, stayed silent.
"The voices."
"Oh?"
"Can I go back to my bedroom?" Chloe whispered, resting her head in her hands. Her eyes prickled with tears, but as usual, she held them back. This time, though, it took more effort (maybe breaking down would feel good. She pushed the thought from her head.)
"I'm not done. Why have you been hurting yourself?" Ange asked, and almost instantly, tears began to drip down Chloe's sunken cheeks. She began to sob, her whole body quivering with the sudden onslaught of emotions that she had held back for so long.
Ange didn't move from where she sat. She watched Chloe cry, though, eyebrows furrowing together. When she was done, the girl's breaths were ragged and her eyes were puffy and red. It was quite pitiful, really.
"Why, Chloe?"
This time, Ange was met with silence. It was the kind of silence that hung in the air, heavy and rigid. It was the kind of silence that was sort of hushed, sort of muffled.
"It's hard, Mum."
Ange didn't have to ask to know what Chloe was talking about.
"I know," she replied.
"May I go back up to my room?"
"What happened last night? Why did you decide to come to me?" Ange asked.
"I don't know, Mum. I don't remember," Chloe answered truthfully. "I know I haven't been able to sleep in over a week. I hadn't eaten in days."
"You hadn't slept in a week?"
"No."
Ange was quiet. Chloe blushed slightly under her intense stare.
"I can't give you another tablet. They're addictive," Ange said softly. Chloe wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her jumper.
"I wasn't expecting one."
Chloe moves to stand up, and turned around to leave, her stomach, for once, full, and her head a little less filled with that goddamn voice: put yourself out of your own fucking misery.
"Chloe," Ange called softly, and she turned around, a grim look on her face.
"Yes?"
"Do you have any wounds that might need cleaning?"
In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. She's already seen them. She knows they're there. She's trying to give you control, she's on your side.
"Maybe," Chloe replied, quietly, impossibly quietly, yet Ange heard her. She walked over to where her mother sat, and slowly, tentatively, she rolled up her sleeve. What seemed like endless white hairline fractures covered ghostly skin, which were accompanied by a few red and pink gashes, some still caked in dried blood, some healing.
"Chloe," Ange said again, voice almost a whisper. She pulled the first aid kit from above the sink, and dressed the wounds as quickly as she could.
"Can I go now, Mum?" Chloe asked pleadingly. Ange could only nod, afraid that if she opened her mouth again, she might just break.
—
That night, yet again, Chloe could not sleep. She had made several trips to the bathroom already, but did not want to awaken her mother. She had been so upset already.
She was feverish as she padded down the hallway, pausing when she heard whimpering from behind the bathroom door.
When she peered inside, however, she realized that she was not alone. Someone else had turned the light on, and there, sitting by the mirror, head and hands against the glass, and was crying quietly. (Very heartbroken-ly.)
Chloe's mouth dropped open slightly as she saw her mother's dark purple pyjamas, sweat (or tears?) sticking her long brown hair to the sides of her face.
"Chloe," Ange was crying her name. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've done this to you."
Her voice trailed off and was again replaced by throaty cries.
Chloe, heart pounding in her chest, backed out of the room, her mind whirring.
What had she just seen?
—
The night after that, Chloe was sat on the floor of the bathroom. It was pitch black, but the piece of glass in her hand glinted like silver. She gulped as he stared at it, a thousand thoughts running rampant through her head. She wanted to press it to her wrist- God, more than anything- but she remembered her mother, and she remembered their promise, and somehow, she was able to keep it away from her skin.
She ran her fingers through her hair, which was growing back, and she wanted to give in more than anything, but she held herself back and tried to fill her head with thoughts of the few things that made her happy and safe-
and then someone was sitting beside her. Chloe didn't open her eyes, but as the figure gently pried the glass from her hands, with warm, confident fingers, she knew exactly who it was. Mum.
The figure didn't leave. The figure sat next to Chloe silently until, in a shaky voice, Chloe began to whisper.
"I'm okay."
—
Ange stared at Chloe, and her daughter smiled a true, golden smile.
God, she was beautiful.
—
On the first of May, Chloe crept into her mother's room again. Ange was sat in bed with the table lamp on, the duvet drawn over her legs and a book in her hands.
"You okay?" Ange asked, placing the book down and reaching for her mug of tea. Chloe shrugged, settling herself on the other side of the bed with her legs crossed.
"I don't really know."
"Talk to me. How are you feeling?" Ange asked, and Chloe inhaled, then exhaled slowly.
"Know what?," Chloe mumbled, and Ange's lips twitched.
"What?" She replied.
"I'm doing okay." Chloe nodded. She then rolled up her sleeves, revealing hundreds of thin white lines. Scars, but nothing new. Ange stared at Chloe's arms before meeting her eyes.
"Progress, sweetheart," she said, and Chloe found herself smiling as she rolled her sleeves back down.
"I haven't been perfect," Chloe admitted, moving the blanket aside and sliding her legs underneath. "I've skipped a few meals. I've not gone to bed a couple of times. I've thought about razors and just letting go more than I probably should have."
Ange looked at her daughter, really looked, and she saw a damaged girl, broken but slowly repairing, and she felt her skin warm.
Perhaps I haven't failed you.
"That's okay. You're okay," Ange said, because at the moment it was the most human thing she could say. Chloe sniffed.
"I know."
Ange smiled at her daughter, motioning her closer and Chloe shuffled over onto Ange's side of the bed. She leant her head against the side of her mother's chest, feeling her head rise and fall with each breath, listening closely for the heartbeat that brought her so much comfort. Ange wrapped her arms around her daughter, stroking her hair gently like she did when she was a baby.
"Love you." Chloe whispered, feeling her eyelids flutter and sleep start to set in.
"I love you too."
My soul wandered, happy, sad,
unending.
- Pablo Neruda-