empty

It happened slowly. It started with a feeling that came from deep within her stomach. Something was churning, changing inside of her. It was a heaviness, but also a hollowness. Her efforts to rid herself of whatever was becoming of her were helpless. Filling herself with anything she could to feel whole again. She would go out at night and drink until she could hardly stand. Usually ended up in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar man. This was the only thing that helped ease the pain of the growing pit. However, it was bottomless and she knew nothing could truly cure this. She tried food. She ate and ate and ate until she had to throw up. She also didn’t eat; thought maybe she’d starve it away. Nothing.

It continually built up inside of her. She was angry about it and could only scream to communicate. So, she stopped talking altogether. She found that walking helped to slow its growth, but it was becoming too much. Then it happened fast. While on the train she noticed it in her arms first, felt it in her hands. She stared at them until they became fuzzy. She forgot to blink. Her dark blue nails were chipping, but not just the polish. She picked at her left hand’s fingernails with her right hand until each one was gone. She wanted to keep going. She looked up and saw an old woman across from her staring at her hands as she picked. She shoved them into her coat pockets.

They approached her stop and she got off quickly. She ran into the station bathroom and into a stall. Stared at her hands again and continued to pick. By the time she got out of her trance half her pinkie was gone, chipped away like paint, the inside hollow. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t completely painless. It was like eating an unripe fruit, but she was starving.

It was now entirely physical, this feeling wasn't something she could play off as being dramatic. She was fading from existence. The fear was delayed, but it hit as she pushed her way into her home. Immediately, she dropped to the floor and began to cry. Screaming is more of what she was doing. It was visceral. Things were getting hazy around her. She found she wasn’t able to stand up and had to crawl to her couch. She lifted herself and slowly got her balance back.

Very slowly, and with immense precision, she started walking towards the bathroom. She stared into the mirror and no longer recognised herself. She looked the same, but was utterly convinced the person staring back was someone completely different than the person she was familiar with.

She reached for her razor and picked at it, just like she did her fingers. She was able to retrieve the blades from within the razor with minimal loss of her hand. She took the small and sharp blades and lay them in front of her. There were four. She chose the one that looked the sharpest, tiny as it was she could hold it between her pointer finger and thumb. She stuck the razor’s blade into her left arm and applied pressure, making a horizontal line. The pain existed, but just as she feared, it was like carving into a pot. She did not bleed and her skin crumbled at the seams of the incision. She slashed different parts of her body, hoping she would bleed. Her other arm, both her thighs, her feet, her stomach, even her face. Nothing. It was all the same.