I was locked in my room, tears running down my face. Rocking back and forth on my heels, I buried my head in my hands and whispered over and over again, "I'm such a bad person...I'm such a bad person...I'm such a bad person..."
As soon as I'd gotten into the house, Mom starting ranting at me about how I'd left the living room a mess last night. True enough, I had physics notes and drained water bottles and Vogue magazines strewn across the coffee table, but it was no reason for Mom to yell and curse and hit me.
Grabbing a mirror, I looked at my shoulder for the umpteenth time, praying to the God I was having a hard time believing in. "God, please, don't let the bruise show," I whispered, but much to my dismay, a big, black-and-blue bruise was forming on my shoulder, where Mom hit me. She meant to get my face, but because of the alcohol in her system (she wasn't an alcoholic, but she certainly did drink on occasion), she missed and hit my shoulder, instead. Thankfully, I could cover up the bruise with another three-quarter-length sleeve shirt tomorrow.
I set down the mirror and drew my knees up to my chest, whispering prayers and pleas and self-deprecation. I could feel my anxiety kicking in, but instead of letting it overcome me like it had done so many times before, I grabbed my earphones again and stuck them in my ears. Music was my solace, as well as starving and exercising and being with Ari.
The contagious rhythm of the music flooded my ears, and I began to relax.
But I could tell that another anxiety attack was on its way. Maybe not today, but sometime dreadfully soon.
I shuddered and tried to shove the thought away.
Yet the tears still fell, and as I tried to brush them from my face, I knew that I'd never, ever be normal again.
Oh, God, if You're there...please, do something to help me.
I began to sob.