I won't die by not doing it, then why should I do it? Does anything in the world even matter? I'm always cooped up in my room—so what? Just let me stay in peace. I beg you, take your annoying presence out of my face.
Those were the words I would hurl at my mother every day. I hadn't always been like that. The depressed girl, always cooped up in her room, her resentment against the world growing day by day—that was the version of me that had been building for the past five years.
I knew I was hurting her. I saw it on her face every day—something deeper than sadness, like a quiet heaviness I couldn't name. But I couldn't stop the words spilling from my mouth—my dirty, useless mouth that only seemed to know nothing but insults and harshness.
I despised myself, and the fact that I couldn't seem to move on disgusted and frustrated me.
I wanted to avoid and erase the person staring back at me in the mirror. My curly black hair was unkempt. Pale was how my caramel skin now appeared. My lips cracked, and the dark bags under my eyes made me look horrible and disgusting.
Guilt from my harsh words had lingered, she asked me to buy groceries for dinner. She pressed the bills into my hand before I could protest, as if she had been waiting for me to leave the house. So i took the money and left.
I exposed myself to the streets I had so frequently avoided. I was terrified of the outside. Every sound and movement made my skin crawl, and my thoughts clouded with intense fear.
I wasn't paying attention to the traffic lights. A shout from an old lady snapped me back—almost too late. A truck roared past.
Shaken, I still made my way to the store.
The fluorescent lights buzzed above me, casting a sterile glow. The polished tiles gleamed too. Detergent and something sugary perfumed the air, a sharp contrast to the exhaust and dust outside.
Each squeak of cart wheels against the floor echoed, every cough or muttered word from passing strangers felt amplified in my ears. I tried to steady my breath, but even the hum of the refrigerators along the wall felt like it was pressing in on me.
My fingers brushed against the rough cardboard of a cereal box, grounding me, though my chest still trembled as if I had only just stepped out of traffic.
I kept my eyes low and hastened through the aisles, the overhead lights stinging against my tired eyes. The shelves loomed on either side, packed tight with boxes and cans, but I didn't stop to read labels.
I just reached for what I needed, the crinkle of plastic bags and the hollow thud of jars sliding into my basket sounding too sharp despite the loudness in my mind.
My heart thumped faster with every step, as if the walls were closing in. All I wanted was to get what I came for and push my way back out into the open air before my nerves snapped.
At the register, I fumbled with the bills, my fingers clumsy and damp with sweat. The cashier's polite smile felt like a spotlight, stretching the seconds into something unbearable.
The beep of each item being scanned throbbed in my ears, louder than the surrounding chatter. I forced a nod, snatched the bag the moment it slid across the counter, and hurried toward the doors.
The automatic glass panels parted with a hiss, and only then—stepping back into the cool air—did I feel the tightness in my chest loosen, if only a little.
By the time I returned, she immediately started cooking. We didn't say much to each other, I went to my room, waiting to be called for dinner.
The evening carried on like any other, quiet and unremarkable. When she called me down, I answered without hesitation, sliding into my usual seat at the table.
Rice and peas paired with chicken sauce. It was my favourite meal, although the scent differed slightly from how it usually was.
Everything seemed totally normal—the meal was steaming hot and the plates were set neatly on the table. She took her seat across from me.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then paused. Instead, she asked, "Did you hear about the poisoning case in the neighborhood?"
I didn't say anything, but she kept talking nonetheless. When I lifted my spoon, I thought I caught her staring at me a little too closely.
But the food smelled good, and I was hungry, so I didn't say anything. I took a bite—then another.
By the third bite, a strange heaviness spread through me. My vision blurred, the room tilted—and before I could even gasp, I collapsed forward. The warmth of the food hit my cheek first. Then more red spread beneath my head, pooling fast.
I heard her chair scrape agaisnt the floor as she stood up and walked over to me. Her arms wrapped tightly around me as she began to cry.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart….."
The burning in my throat felt like it was on fire. The pain seared me as i choked on the blood that poured from me like a waterfall.
A thought struck—perhaps my most grotesque form wasn't the reflection that haunted me in the mirror every day, but the form where I laid face-down on the dining table in a pool of my own blood.