Past Her Insanity - Taylorde (complete)

• Ch.One - Lost •

AN Trigger warning: This fanfiction contains the mentioning of eating disorders, depression, suicide and self harm. If subjects like this bother you, please do not read. This fic also contains strong language and sexual content.

All events in this fanfiction are entirely fictional. I do not own any of the characters. This story may not be shared anywhere without my permission.

(Hurtful comments towards me or other readers will be deleted and you will be blocked).

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I am not skinny enough. Therefore I am not pretty enough.

My heave spills into the toilet bowel, my shaking fingers holding back my sweating hair. It's not enough. That was barely anything. Taking my index finger I force it to the back of my throat and push. It's become so easy, so painless, so...comforting. More ugly fluid pours from my mouth. Here comes the dizziness. And I'm in heels too. This should end well. A concerned hand taps at the bathroom door. I ignore it. It's locked so I don't have to worry about who was there intruding and seeing me like this. They knock for a second time, quicker and firmer. I still choose not to acknowledge the soul and continue to throw up, loudly so they would hear I was busy and depart. But much to my now intense annoyance, a third rap at the door is made clear.

"Go away!", I cry.

"Taylor my poppet, please stop that", the voice at the other side begs. Ellie.

"I'm finished now anyway", I huff and flush away this mornings breakfast and the lunch I ate just about an hour ago.

I strain my legs as I stand, my knees shaking and hands gripping tightly to the slippery sink. I gaze over at myself in the full length mirror that leans at the back of the room. I pull my dress over my stomach. Sharp ribs protrude from my milky skin. My collarbones and spinal chord are just barely beginning to make an appearance. Perfect. That looks okay. That looks pretty. It seems that I have said that last sentence out loud because dear Ellie behind the door asks of what I'm referring to. But I'm too infatuated with my form. I trace along the outline of a particularly favoured bone around my chest just under my chin. I've only just begun to appear really slim. I started purposely getting sick about a year ago.

"Come on, little dote. Let me in", Ellie nags.

And I listen this time. But she's not coming in. I'm leaving and she can follow me again, wondering for the hundredth time "what have I done" and as usual I won't answer because she knows damn well. I unlock the door and push her aside as it opens. Her pastel pink hair is twirled around her fingers in an apologetic manner. Cinnamon irises are forced into large rings as her pupils swell in desirous hope for some answers. But she's not getting any.

Why did Mom even pick Ellie to be a member of my suicide watch? She isn't that good at speaking to me (not that I want to speak with anyone these days) and she has a terrible and insistent habit of asking if I wanted tea or scones. Or crumpets. Or biscuits. Or a fry in the morning. I don't even have to go to England if I want to experience the cuisine. I have this little Lyonshall chef. And her voice! That soft, breathy, mousy voice! I can't stand it - having to listen to that every day! Sure It's cute but I'm beginning to lose my sanity a little more on each hearing.

I'm about to leave the comfort of my bedroom to go downstairs but Ellie grabs the shoulder strap of my dress.

"Watch it! This was probably expensive!", I yell.

"You need to get help, Taylor! This is downright madness!"

"I'm not sick!", I shout back, not exactly answering to the remark.