masochist // h.s

02; BLOODSHOT EYES AND CIGARETTES

:: 02

time doesn't even matter

because this lit cigarette between

my fingers will still burn out

the same way your eyes did

when you first looked at me

-

/ florence /

By the time morning rolled around, I dragged myself out of bed at around six a.m. and shuffled to the bathroom adjoining my room.

The face waiting for me in the mirror was nothing short of horrifying; my blonde hair was a frenzied mess, and my eyes were baggy and full of sleep. I gripped the edges of the sink as I stared at the oval-shaped mirror, my knuckles turning white as I held onto it harder.

I grabbed my bottle of antidepressants and popped two into my mouth, swallowing. I brought a hand to my forehead, which seemed to be paler than usual. Sweat came off on my fingertips. I frowned at my reflection for a moment, but quickly attributed my appearance to lack of sleep.

Shivering in the cold bathroom, I padded barefoot across the white tiles and turned the shower to its warmest setting, so that steam filled the bathroom and clouded the mirror. Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of my dresser, washed and fully dressed. My hair hung down my back, damp and wavy. It was annoying, the way it dripped into the hood of my gray jacket so I pulled it up into a sloppy ponytail.

My grandmother called me before I finished, shouting, "Flo-rence! Come down here before breakfast gets cold!" I couldn't see her, but I knew she was at the bottom of the stairs, probably holding a pan full of whatever the hell she was cooking for breakfast. I caught a whiff of its putrid stench from all the way up in my room.

"Com-ing!" I yelled back. I scooped up my textbooks and laptop-laden backpack. Before leaving the room, I cast one more glimpse into the mirror, and gave my reflection a staunch nod before moving on, leaving my bed an unmade mess behind me.

My grandmother did not turn around to acknowledge me as I swept into the kitchen, a tall, ungainly mess of teenage limbs. As I dumped my baggage unceremoniously onto the ground by the doorway, she stayed facing the stove.

A plate was waiting for me on the dining table: mysterious yellow sludge that may or may not have been scrambled eggs. I took one whiff, made a pained face, and pushed it aside. My stomach growled as I pulled open the fridge to find a bottle of water, but I swallowed down the hunger. I'd pick up something from the cafe on my way to morning classes.

When I turned from the fridge, my grandmother was standing right behind me.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, the element of surprise pushing me against the counter top. The surprised tightening in my chest was rising by increments.

"Jesus, Grandma," I murmured, absently pressing my fingertips to my jugular to feel my rapid heartbeat. "Don't do that."

She scrutinized my face, our almost identical grey eyes locked in an unwitting staring contest. Hers narrowed more by the second, and I knew that in her head, she was criticizing my face, the way I'd done my hair. "You didn't make it, did you?" She asked, her tone sharp and accusatory.

"What?" I raised my eyebrows as I shrugged my bag onto my shoulders, confused.

"Your bed. You didn't make your bed, did you?"

I heard the danger in her tone; I needed to say yes, because she was explosive. But I hadn't, in fact, made my bed, and she knew that because I never did, and we had that same conversation every single morning.