Chapter Two - Fear and Confusion
In the morning when I wake, I feel sore all over, but mostly the inside of my thighs. I sit on my bed in silence for 45 minutes, not thinking. My mind is completely blank and I am grateful for moments like these. They seldom come. Eventually, though, I snap out of it and reality comes crashing back down. I look down at my hands, pale and shaking. My veins seem to stand out more than usual; little blue and red snakes crawling under my skin.
Slowly, I creak open the bedroom door and peer into the hallway, straining to listen for any sound. There is none. I tiptoe out into the 5-foot hallway and to the bathroom. I close the door as gently as I can. There it is. The thing I hate the most but love all at the same time. My reflection stares back at me, hollow cheeks and caved-in eyes. My lip is split. I look like a demon, a monster.
I look down and wash my hands. The cold water feels good. I wash my face with water and a dollar-store soap bar. I never do this, I never take care of myself. I never brush my hair or my teeth. I hate myself, why should I?
There's this tiny positive thought that whispers, "Because it feels nice."
I smile slightly and look in the mirror. "It does," I say softly to myself.
It's rare that a thought like this pierces through the haze of derangement and chaos of my mind. I like to refer to them as voices, because they sound different. But the voices aren't really different from each other, besides their tone. It's all my own voice in my head but it still sounds foreign, like it's someone else. Most times it spews hateful, nasty thoughts at me; trying to convince me that I deserve everything that happens to me, that I deserve to die. But every once in a while, there's a single thought that tells me "You can do this!" or "You deserve to be happy." It's also rare that I believe it.
I tiptoe back to my bedroom and shut the door as carefully as I can. I know most likely my mother is still asleep in bed and my father is at work. Still, I don't want to wake her.
I find some pink lipstick and some BB cream and try to hide the split lip. I feel like I look like a clown but I don't wash it off. I'm scared that someone at school will call Social Services again and then the consequences will be even worse. I try to match my clothes to the makeup. I don't own much pink: a lot of black and lime green. I have a small obsession with lime green at the moment. Eventually, I find a pink sweater that has loose threads, but it's the best I can find so I pair it with jeans and grab my backpack.
It's already hot outside and it's only 7:30 in the morning. That's South Florida for you. I grew up in Broward county, moving around from trailer park to shitty apartment complex - one after another. I kind of liked moving so much. I always felt as though it protected me somehow. Protected my secrets from those around me desperate to expose them. The less time I'm there, the less time they have to notice the odd behavior and occasional bruise. The less chance they have of getting to know who I really am inside.
The bus is late. I'm the only student at my stop. I'm standing there awkwardly for what feels like forever when a boy passes by - no, a man. Not really a man, either. Somewhere in between. He's smoking a cigarette and has on baggy, black jeans with a chain hanging from the pocket. His face is acne-scarred and his greasy blonde hair hangs in his eyes. He notices me and says, "Hey, waiting for the bus?"
I smile nervously. "Yeah, it's late again. Sometimes I think they'll forget about me out here."
"Do you smoke?" He asks as he pulls another cigarette out of the pack. "Newport" is written on the pack in a green banner.
"Yeah," I lie and accept the cigarette he hands me. I watch him light his own because I have no idea what I'm doing. He hands me the lighter. I ignite it and inhale hard and cough even harder. Tears sting at my eyes and my nose burns from the smoke. It tastes terrible. He laughs at me.
"What's your name?" he asks once my coughing fit is over.
"Aliza," I answer. I try inhaling from the cigarette again, this time not as hard. It's easier and I don't cough as much. My head spins slightly.
"That's pretty. I'm Robert." He nods as he says his name, and for some reason it seems kind of gangster to me. I get this strange feeling in my gut - butterflies of a sort.
I see my bus coming a block away. I quickly throw the cigarette down and stomp on it. "That's my bus," I say nervously.
"All right, I'll see ya later," he says nonchalantly and walks away. My heart skips a beat. I wonder if he felt it too.
People look at me strangely in the hallway. I see Jennifer and Angela snickering by their lockers, whispering to each other as they watch me walk.
I shrink into myself. I am a turtle and I have a hard, protective shell that is keeping me safe from all of you and your negative comments. I am untouchable. None of your opinions matter.
In Homeroom, Mrs. Stanley reminds us all that the school year is coming to an end soon and that means so is middle school for us and our High School journeys will begin.
I begin to feel excited. All I can think about is the day that I turn 18 and can go wherever I want and be whoever I want. High school is one step closer to this.
Mrs. Stanley lectures us on making sure that we keep our grades up and not focusing on romantic relationships. Her speech is annoying and boring. I almost fall asleep and then the bell rings.
Lunch at school is always lonely for me. I sit at a round table for six, alone and in silence, eating the standard bread and cheese they give students who come without lunch money. It's not so bad, I decide. Cheese is pretty delicious and so is bread. Plus, it's free. Why complain? I tell myself these things forcefully. I try not to feel sorry for myself. I remind myself that someone out there has it way worse and I should feel sorry for them instead.
Today, someone new joins me at the table. She looks like me, and I don't mean her features. She has greasy hair and torn shoes. She wears square, wire-rimmed glasses and has unruly bangs. Her features are small and pointed. I think she's very cute and then I think Do I have a thing for girls?
"Hi," she squeaks. "Is it okay if I sit here?" She is very timid and suddenly I feel like a mother bear and want to protect her.
"Of course not, it's obviously taken," I joke, but she takes me seriously and looks frightened as she stands to leave. "No, I'm sorry!" I yell, and feel self-conscious as heads turn to look. Quietly, I say "I was only joking. Of course you can sit here." She hesitates but sits. "What's your name?" I ask.
"Sylvia. What about you?"
"Aliza. What grade are you in?"
"I'm in 6th, what about you?" She asks.
"I'm in 8th grade." We are silent for a moment. "Do you wanna be friends?" I blurt out and my face feels hot.
She says "Okay..." and I feel really awkward.
I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. Why do I have to be so weird and strange? Why can't I just casually ask someone to be my friend without it feeling so uncomfortable? I want to cry.
We don't talk much for the rest of lunch and I feel she may not come back to sit with me the next day.
After lunch is Economics class and I'm nervous to go because I have a feeling Mrs. Shone is the one who called Social Services on me. I wait until right before the bell rings to go to class and make a beeline for my desk with my head down. She doesn't address me, as I feared she would, and begins her lecture. Twenty minutes into class, I have to pee. I raise my hand. "Yes, Aliza?" Mrs. Shone calls to me.
"Can I please use the restroom?" I ask.
"Of course."
I sprint out of the classroom and into the hallway. I run for the bathroom and barely make it in time. I've never felt such relief, I think as I flush.
When I go to wash my hands, I look in the mirror and am horrified. My pink lipstick is mostly gone and so is the BB cream I applied. My split lip is painfully obvious. I panic and check my pockets for the lipstick. Either I don't have it on me, or I left it at home. Shit, shit, shit, I think. Mrs. Shone most certainly noticed. I'm terrified to go back to class but have no choice and do so begrudgingly.
Again, I keep my head down and stay silent at my desk until the bell rings and try to think of an explanation. She calls me to her desk again, as I feared she would. "What happened to your face?" she asks. Her eyes tell me she is genuinely concerned. I can feel the apprehension coming from her in waves.
"My cat scratched me." I try to keep my face blank and emotionless.
She eyes me skeptically. "I didn't think you had any pets."
She's right, I don't. I've always wanted one but my mother won't let me. I have a sudden memory of my father snapping the neck of a kitten. It shakes me to my core and I shiver visibly. The memory is so sudden and unexpected that I'm taken aback. It's vivid and clear, like it was yesterday.
"Aliza?" Mrs. Shone asks.
I've been zoned out. "I do have a cat," I say. "Her name is Lily."
"Okay." Mrs. Shone looks like she doesn't entirely believe me, but doesn't push the topic. I say goodbye and leave. I realize once I'm in the hall that I've been holding my breath and when I finally inhale, it almost hurts.
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