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Her head pounded, legs shaking as she stared forward, face contorted in horror and repulsion.
Someone foreign stood in front of her.
Her stomach lurched, reaching her hand to cover her mouth.
Overstimulating.
Everything was so overstimulating, she didn’t even bother to adjust her glasses like she usually did.
The stranger in front of her looked so angry, eyes piercing her skin with a look of disgust. Blue eyes devoid of life, nothing left. She had seen too much in this lifetime.
“I hate you,” the stranger snapped at her. “You’re gross, you’re gross, you’re gross!”
The urge to vomit worsened, and a pulse in her head caused her hand to divert its positioning. It always went hand in hand like this.
The too tight band of her bra left red impressions on her skin, and was too difficult to breathe against. She couldn’t take it off, she couldn’t bare to see what was underneath. The cold air on her skin made her shiver, but blankets made her too hot. The panic attack welling inside her made her entire body tremble, unrelated to temperature.
A gentler part of her wanted to reach through the mirror, cup the stranger’s face, fix her glasses, and hold her close. An evil part, one she didn’t want to plead guilty to, wanted to dig her nails into her face and scream and shame her.
“I feel so sick,” she muttered helplessly, like it would change a single thing. She reached under her frames and wiped her eyes, before letting herself onto the floor. Her breath came out in choked sobs as she pulled her knees to her chest.
Eventually she mustered the strength to crawl into the shower, stripping her undergarments and turning on the water as hot as possible. She jolted at the wash of freezing water against her skin, finally stopping the anxiety just for a moment. A single second of freedom and peace.
Closing her eyes, the boiling water came over her.
A selfish part of her, akin to the evil part, thought of his hands. His strong, capable hands cupping her cheeks. Running his fingers through her hair. Making her feel pretty.
Water running off her eyelashes, she peers down at her body. She hopes it will be pretty.
And then she gags.
She’s debating just letting herself throw up at this point, the waiting through the nausea was always the worst. She covers her eyes with her hands now, letting out a pathetic wail as she replays the sight in her mind. Her breasts are too small, her hips aren’t quite big enough, her form looks like a stiff plank of wood. Her body is scarred from her forearms down to her thighs.
But she was careful, always so careful. Never too deep, never too many visible at once, never reusing the same blade. Always applying antiseptic and sterilizing appropriately. Always leaning in to the repetitive, comforting motion of the gauze gently stinging her cuts.
Some nights, when she was being the most inappropriate, she imagined Langdon cleaning them for her. He’d shush her quietly, tell her it’s all okay, pet her head, and take good care of her.
But that was unprofessional. And she could never be pretty for him. It was already too late.
Since the age of ten, it was already too late. She had cut open her pure, untouched skin, desperately seeking refuge from family troubles.
Long before the age of ten, everything with everyone had already felt like too much.
And the sight of her, the mere thought of her, would be sure to make Langdon sick. It seemed like ever since she was a kid, she had this super power of repelling everyone around her. Maybe the stranger was right, maybe she was gross. Contaminated. A biohazard. Don’t get too close to Mel King, or you might just catch it! Whatever it was she had that made her so miserable.
“I hate this body, I hate this body,” she repeated under her breath. “I hate this body, I hate you!”
Instinctively reaching for the shelf on the shower wall, she pulled out an untouched, silver blade, without even looking.
She would never be pretty, what’s the point now?
She broke the sterile field, painting a line across her stomach, and another over her thigh. She wanted to never have to see her chest again, she wanted to hurt it, to destroy it. But everything would show with only a scrub top on, and it wasn’t ideal.
The sting paired with the simmering heat of the shower brought her down from her panic. Just enough pain for her baseline to feel normal.
Her body was unclean, filthy, used goods.
But in this moment, she found peace.