Empty

by K. M. Walton

  Floating.

  I cringe as a shooting pain jets from my toe up my calf. How the hell am I going to make it up more stairs? “Carefully, stupid,” I answer myself out loud.

  My phone buzzes again when I’m on the third step. I can’t stop now or I’ll never make it to the top. My bladder reminds me that it’s full and still wants to be emptied, pronto. I squeeze my crotch with one hand and grasp the banister with the other.

  On the seventh step, my bladder waits no more, and I pee my pants. Right there on the steps. Once I start peeing I can’t stop. “Oh, shit, shit, shit!” My jeans are warm and wet.

  I look down and see that the carpeting on the stairs is still dry. I pat my hips. “Good job,” I tell my jeans. I’ll bet a size-two girl wouldn’t have had enough fabric to soak up her pee.

  I still have three more steps to go. When I lift my leg, I groan. Apparently when pee soaks into size twenty-four jeans it doesn’t stay warm for long.

  My hand is on the doorknob when I hear the television. I close my eyes and shake my head. I failed to consider that my mother would still be awake. I look at my watch. It’s only ten forty. She never misses the eleven o’clock news. Holy effing hell. How am I going to hobble into the apartment, covered in pee, with black makeup smudged all over my face, without her seeing me? The sofa faces the damn door.

  I decide to just walk in, head lowered, and limp down the hallway to the bathroom as fast as I can. I’ll lock the door and jump in the shower before the questions come. I’ll pretend I can’t hear Mom knocking.

  Before the ten million things that could go wrong with this plan start taunting me, I unlock the door and do it.

  I make it, and I’m locked in the bathroom, panting as if I ran home from school. I put my ear to the door. I don’t hear anything but the TV. Maybe Mom will wait till I’m out of here. Maybe the sleep gods have given me a gift and she’s snoring on the sofa.

  I look in the mirror. “Fuhh—” I can’t even finish the curse. It looks like I’ve smeared my face with tar and dirt and blood. Everything’s smudged. The rainbow eye shadow. The maroon lips.

  Ugly. Smeared. Hideous.

  I lean in so my nose is touching the mirror.

  I want to see me.

  My knees give way a little. The light is gone. My eyes are dark.

  I see no one.

  Gasping for Air

  I DON’T KNOW IF I’VE EVER SEEN ANYTHING SO ugly in my life. My hair is matted on one side and a sweaty strand is stuck to my neck like a brown snake.

  With trembling hands, I get undressed. I pile my pee-soaked underwear and jeans in the corner and lay my phone on the counter. I carefully strip off one sock and then the other. My toe is navy blue and black. The clear tape has rolled up on the side and my toe has swelled out around it.

  Hot water. That’s what I want. Hot water. I want to wash everything off me. The pee. The shame. The humiliation. The hatred. I climb over the side of the tub, using both hands to keep steady. The hot water runs down my body, and I put my head back so it hits my face. Black streams of water roll down my boobs as the mascara washes away. It’s not hot enough. I reach back and twist down the cold knob. Steam fills the room, and I breathe in deeply.

  Still not hot enough.

  I turn off the cold water completely. I want my skin to bubble and peel off. I want my blood to go down the drain. I want to be a pile of sparkly clean bones, white and pure. No organs or tendons. No squishy brain. No broken heart. Just bones. Scrubbed of weakness.

  After a few minutes of standing trancelike under the water, I snap out of it. I grab the bar of soap and lather every inch of me in my best effort to feel clean, to wash all the pain away. But bubbles and hot water don’t have that power.

  When I can’t see my hand in front of my face, I figure it’s time to get out of the shower. The fan has never worked since we moved in. Meggie always says it’s like a cloud after I shower. She’d flip out and clap her little hands if she saw how thick the “cloud” is right now.

  I can’t believe my mother didn’t even turn off the television, say hello, or check on me. I wish I could spend the night in the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to face her. But I hardly fit in the tub standing.

  I get dry and use the towel to wipe off the mirror. I lean in and inspect my face. I still have eyeliner underneath my eyes. “Wow, what is that stuff made of?” After multiple swipes with a tissue my face is finally makeup-free.

  Ugly with makeup. Ugly without makeup.

  I gather my clothes into a ball underneath my arm and grab my phone. I clutch my towel and open the door quietly. I look down the hall. Mom doesn’t appear.

  I make it to my room, and my phone buzzes in my hand. I’ve got another text from Cara. I’ll read it later. I put my phone on my nightstand, drop my dirty clothes into the hamper, and grab my pajamas and underwear from my drawer. After I’m dressed for bed, I watch Meggie asleep in her crib. My stomach reminds me that I’m starving. I know it’s late and I should start my diet again. I should climb into bed. But my stomach would growl all night and wake—

  Screw it.

  I make my sandwiches in a dark kitchen. I’m too afraid to turn on the light. I try to eat like a ninja, straining to hear if I’ve woken up my mother after each bite. Each time the sandwich makes entry into my mouth, I repeat I just can’t believe it in my head. I remain shocked by Sydney’s confusing behavior. She was the one who taped the cow picture to my locker. But it was also Sydney who told the counselor she was worried about me. I don’t even know Sydney.

  Cara should’ve gone to the counselor, paralyzed with concern for her best friend, Dell. It should’ve been Cara.

  Maybe Cara and I never really appreciated each other. I should’ve told her how I feel, really opened up to her.

  I listen to the fridge hum. A shitty thought cuts through the droning: I don’t know how to talk about things that really matter. Maybe that’s why I’m a size twenty-four. I am full of problems. Stuffed like the trash cans after last lunch. Each fat roll is swollen with unresolved issues I should’ve let go . . . or talked about. I keep it all inside, every bit of it—the confusion of my parents’ divorce, the resulting broken heart, the disappointment of my father, my mother, my best friend. The rape.

  I don’t know how to talk about my life with anyone. Self-doubt and hatred, two obnoxious assholes, are the loudest voices in my head. They’re aggressive, bossing me around, intimidating me into silence.

  As I swallow my last mouthful, I feel unsatisfied. I eye up the crumbs on my plate. Tears suddenly well up and roll down my cheeks. My eyes dart around the room as I swallow a sob. I rake my hand through my wet hair.

  Food can’t even satisfy me anymore. It disappears in the quicksand of pain.

  I peek into the living room, expecting to see my sleeping mother. She’s not on the sofa. I lean in farther and strain to see if she fell off of the sofa or something. Where the hell is she? The bathroom? No, I would’ve seen her walk by.

  I go over and turn off the TV. I limp back into the kitchen and turn on the light. That’s when I see the note taped to the cabinet.

  I signed up for outpatient rehab. Starts Monday.

  ∼Mom

  Outpatient rehab? I stare at the words and read them a few times. My eighth-grade health teacher said that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. Or something like that. Maybe my old mother will re-emerge from her drug-induced stupor. The mother who listened and smiled and tucked me into bed with kisses. I bet Meggie will prefer clean mommy to drugged-up mommy. Meggie deserves better, so if signing up for outpatient rehab will allow clean mommy to come home, then bring it on.

  I grab two ice-cream bars on my way past the freezer. Each bite I take as I make my way down the hallway is followed by a cringe—my toe is still killing me. A huge chunk of chocolate coating nearly falls to the floor, but my mouth saves the day. I’m enjoying the rich chocolate melting and gliding over my tongue when I see that my mother’s door i
s closed. I try and remember if her door was closed when I walked past earlier. She was probably in her room the whole time. I can’t believe she just went to bed without making sure I was home safe.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and eat the second bar. Outpatient rehab. Huh. I think that’s where the drug addicts only visit for treatment. They don’t live there. I forgot about that kind of rehab. I wonder if it’ll work. Would she stay up to say good night to me like before? If my mom gets clean, will my father break off his engagement to Donna and come back?

  I get myself into bed so I can elevate my toe. Even with three pillows stuffed behind my back I’m not comfortable. I reach over and put another pillow under my foot. That’s a little better. But I’m not tired. I picture Brandon standing out in the audience, clapping. If he’d been closer I would’ve shoved him to the ground. I never did anything mean to him, yet he sought me out and lured me upstairs at Melissa’s party like a pig to slaughter. He deserves the finger I gave him.

  I’m probably going to be suspended for that bonus show I put on for everyone, which is good in a way, because I won’t have to see any of those people for a few more days. My mom will most likely cry into her hands and tell me what a disappointment I’ve become. Then she’ll complain that I wore a T-shirt and jeans onstage. I can’t wait.

  I grab my phone to read Cara’s text that came in while I was gracefully peeing my pants.

  I’ll put the pix my dad took up on FB later.

  Pictures? Of me? I don’t want to see pictures of me. I know I’ll look enormous. The bright lights shining on my made-up face. Another text comes in.

  I KNOW u r awake. This party is killer. Go online. Pix r up.

  Cara will text me all night until I look at the damn pictures. I sit up and rearrange the pillows. At one point my foot dangles off the side of the bed and blood surges into my toe. I think the pain pills are still working because it wasn’t that bad. I lift my leg and gently elevate my foot again.

  I tap the icon on my phone and read through my wall. Every post is a compliment on my singing. I read each one two or three times, but it all seems pointless. I scroll down and find the SHS Talent Show photos Cara posted.

  The first photo is Cara in all of her perfect purpleness at the piano. Her dress looks pretty. Her hair looks pretty. She looks pretty. The eleven comments below the photo reflect my thinking exactly—they gush with hearts and exclamation points and smiley faces.

  The next photo is Cara standing in front of the piano. She’s beaming, blinding the audience with her smile. More admiration below. Fourteen comments. I want to add one of my own. I type out: You kicked ass, girlfriend! But I hit the backspace and erase it. Girlfriend? Who even says that? Plus, the exclamation point was too much. Too cheerful. I type out: You nailed it.

  Erase.

  Too blah.

  I move on to the next photo. It’s me. My hands are wrapped around the microphone stand, and I’m belting it out. My makeup actually doesn’t look too bad; Cara was right. I squint and study the photo. Her father zoomed in, so my socks and slides aren’t in the picture. Thank God. But my body is in the picture all right.

  Shit. I am gigantic. I click back to Cara’s smiling photo and then back to me. I am easily twice her size. Maybe more. She probably weighs a hundred and ten pounds after a big meal. A few more clicks back and forth between the photos, and I zoom in on mine. That’s when I notice the tag.

  WHALE

  Someone tagged me as WHALE. I stare at the word. Each capital letter punches me in the face. W-H-A-L-E.

  I click to the next picture. Me again. It’s an even tighter shot of my torso and head. With a trembling hand, I click to see if this one is tagged.

  WHALE

  The next one is of me smiling. Oh, I’m soaking in the applause, I can see it in my charcoal-lined eyes.

  WHALE

  I choke for air. How many more photos are on here? I click to the next. It’s another one of Cara. I go back to my first photo and scroll down to the comments. Twenty-three comments. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s another text from Cara. She’s probably telling me not to look at the photos. Too late. I don’t read her text. I go right for the comments.

  The first comments are all compliments. They deteriorate at about the fourteenth. Unleash the evil.

  Taryn: She’s a mannish beast!!

  Chase: mooooo, cow, mooooo. LMFAO

  Taryn: Chaser, where ru guys & why am I not w/u? Tell Brandon to wait for me.

  Chase: he’s already wsted. me tooooooooo. Cara, go get whale, i want to lafffff.

  Taryn: Even if she moos, Dell will always be a WHALE.

  Leaving Craters

  I DROP MY PHONE IN MY LAP.

  Everyone can see that. Everyone!

  I’m going to throw up. Broken toe or not, I fling my feet to the floor and hobble to my trash can. Everything comes out. I stand in the shadows and gag a few more times. “Oh my God,” I whisper. I wipe the tears and spit from my face. I don’t feel any better.

  Meggie rustles in her crib. Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, I repeat silently. As much as I love my sister, I could not face her right now. Not with vomit on my breath and WHALE tattooed across my forehead.

  My phone buzzes and lights up with a new text. It’s gotta be Cara. I can’t deal with her. I want to be alone. I want to sleep. I want to dream and dream. Bed. I want to get back in bed. I have to stop midway and regroup because I think I’m going to faint. I can’t faint. I’d wake the neighborhood when I hit the carpet.

  Deep breaths. In and out. That’s it. Calm down. Three more steps and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed. I made it. I grab my phone. Cara has deleted the photos. The comments are gone.

  Fury shatters everything underneath my skin. I feel liquefied, my rage overflows. Drowning me. I’m nearly under.

  The truth. I have to tell everyone the truth—what really happened at that party.

  Without hesitation, I type in a new status on my wall and hit enter: Brandon raped me.

  I stare at the words, expecting to feel some kind of peace. Instead of relief, I want to throw my phone and smash it to smithereens. No one will believe me. I need more pain pills. I breathe through my nose like a bull to keep the volume down. How my sister isn’t wide awake by now is beyond me. But she’s still sound asleep. I give up elevating my toe and rock back and forth instead.

  Shit builds in my mind like a pyramid. So many hideous blocks. So much ugly. I shake my head back and forth. Fast. Faster. I want the pyramid of shit to tumble to the ground and leave craters. Holes in the earth. I reach up and claw at my hair. I want the pain out of me. No matter how hard I yank my hair, I can’t get it out.

  The weight of my skin is suffocating me. My hands have minds of their own and they pull my shirt up, revealing my dimpled, white fat rolls. They squeeze the fat. I want a knife so I can cut this heaviness off me. Then people would stop letting me down.

  Then someone would love me.

  I’m overpowered by the fat. I grab hold of the flab hanging from my arms and tug and pull. I scratch at my exposed skin, and it stings.

  I flip over and yell into my pillow. It is about as satisfying as kicking the towel. I want to scream until I cough up blood, but I can’t risk waking Maggie.

  If I were a good person, I’d text Cara and thank her for taking down the pictures. But I don’t care anymore. I told the truth in my post. Everyone can comment and laugh until their sides cave in.

  Why can’t people leave me alone?

  I want to be left alone.

  I want to disappear.

  I want to die.

  The Way Meggie Smells

  I BLINK NERVOUSLY, LIKE SOMETHING’S IN MY EYE. I repeat the four words.

  I.

  Want.

  To.

  Die.

  I stop blinking. A little bit of agony releases. I think it again, and a larger chunk of misery floats away. Dying would make i
t all end.

  Out of the blue, Anthony Baldino’s dead body pops in my head. Freshman year he sat next to me in math. He stole his dad’s truck and a bottle of vodka. He got shit-faced and crashed into the back of a bus. He was only fifteen.

  His dead body is the only one I’ve ever seen. I remember his older brother getting escorted from the church during the funeral because he couldn’t keep it together. Everyone talked about Anthony’s death at school. The counselors gave special presentations. The teachers didn’t assign homework for the first two weeks of school. Anthony’s buddies had bright red passes from the principal to excuse them from class if they needed some time alone.

  It was a big deal.

  I don’t want any of that crap. I want to die and not be missed. Or is that insane? I grip my sheets and squint. I want people to feel guilty. Specific people: Brandon, Taryn, Chase, Jacob the table-lifter, my old softball team, my father, DD. Even Cara. I want my fat face to haunt them when they go to sleep.

  I want to sleep forever.

  I look at the clock. It’s almost one in the morning. I quiet my mind and ask myself one question: Do you really want to die? I let the question sit there, like a turkey on a platter. I don’t repeat the question. One asking is sufficient. It’s the king of questions. The pungent taste of vomit mixes with my spit as I swallow.

  My answer is clear: I do.

  I suddenly feel light, like a feather, a balloon, a bird.

  Free.

  This does not surprise me, this weightlessness. It simply feels right. Like something I’ve been waiting to experience, but I just didn’t know it.

  My sister moves in her crib. She can’t see me dead. It would mess her up for life.

  Will my killing myself ruin my mother? I get still and think hard on this one. I know she hates the clothes I wear, buying enough food to feed me, saving for my college education. And my weight.