The Happy Couple: 14 year old me on self harm and anorexia

Note: I was a pretty messed up fourteen year old, which you will shortly be able to admire through this short story I wrote at that age. Self-harm and eating disorders are hardly an easy topic to discuss, and yet I feel like some of you might find this helpful or interesting. I might write more on the actual topic and my experience with overcoming it, but for now, enjoy a little fucked up piece of my early teenage years. You won’t understand what’s actually happening until the end, but that’s the part that I found scariest, re-reading this, nearly five years later.

Standing over a white and blue checkered floor, the happy couple stared at each other through glass-like eyes. She looked straight through her lover; for she knew that she could pick out every flaw on that familiar face. Her grimace grew bigger every time her eyes fixed upon this person and her twiggy figure twitched when she looked up at the frame of that someone she had learnt to love but grown to hate. They smiled tightly and continuously broke eye contact, as if they did not want to see one another, yet it was evident from the way they looked at each other that they had known each other for a long time, that they had discovered the world together.

Her eyes darted around the room as she realized that she could see this person in every surface where the sun would gleam, or where artificial lights lit that crepuscular room, she could even see that face where, through her window, rain would rest, fresh off the pavement. The stars too, stared intently at her, watchful. So she hid in semi-darkness and opted for closing her eyes instead, where only the shadows glared back at her.

Her silent demeanor gradually changed into an all-consuming anger. It was noticeable that her pale, chapped lips had grown accustomed to pronouncing “I hate you”, for she could say it with expert diction. She only spoke in a combination of barely-audible hisses as her expressions twisted painfully on her face. Her skinny fingers clenched, her jaw tightened and her eyes lit with ferocity. She spoke with dementia entrenched in every sound, accusing her lover of terrible deeds. But the lover simply responded by lifting a hand and gently placing it on her face, their face. She pulled away and flinched at the touch. She clenched her eyes shut yet again; gleaming rivers flowed from them, sectioning her face into a map. In these rivers, a reflection was rebounded onto them and so on, until an infinite image had been formed.

Head buzzing, voices spoke seductively in her head, prompting her to harm her paramour. Her vision blurred, as if she was looking through muddy water, then she frantically searched her pockets for something to hold on to and help her achieve some clarity of mind.

Her breath came in short and shallow gasps as she cut her flesh with a switchblade, crimson-red droplets crashing on the cold marble flooring, she felt her ashen pale cheeks and fell to her anemic knees. Her significant other circled her with a worried look, but remained silent; let her perform her perverse ritual and watched through salt-stung and bruised eyes.

Finally, her lover’s lips parted and with a whimper, pleaded at her to stop. But she refused, and continued to mutilate her flesh. In the dead silence, she listened intently as the perfectly rounded edges of the falling blood splashed and splattered, uniting to create a meek but hypnotizing orchestra. The fire in her eyes had been blown out by the gusts of wind that lashed her face through an open window, her heart threatened to stop, but she fought on. She fought to ignite an inferno in her soul, that could give her the power to confront the person that had hurt her once again.

Her clasped fist trembled in angst. Her heart kick-started and beat frantically. She gathered up enough strength to open her mouth and to painstakingly force air through her throat. She agonized with every single word she uttered. “You insist on following me around everywhere, haunting me with your disfigured features. I do not know how to get rid of you anymore, for I have tried starving you and making you bleed but still you appear.”

After delivering her small monologue in a quivering soprano key, she took a deep breath and with all the force left within her, extended a rawboned and scarred arm. A high pitched, sickening crunch pierced the air, as the mirror and the lover shattered into millions of sharp daggers.

Standing over a white and blue blood-stained floor, the happy couple stared at each other through fragmented eyes.



2 thoughts on “The Happy Couple: 14 year old me on self harm and anorexia

  1. Elle Harper says:

    Finding old writing can feel like pulling open old wounds. It can hurt, but it can feel good, too. Seeing how far you’ve come, seeing something with the clarity retrospect can bring with it.
    Good on you for posting this x

    Liked by 1 person

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