Bad Habit

Stay right where you are. he told her, I said...you fuckin' cunt, STAY RIGHT THE FUCK WHERE YOU ARE.

And even though his words were a living projection, they weren't as harsh as one might assume. They were still tender. Still familiar. He could lure her into anything. He always lured her here, didn't he, and now she was at the mercy of his will.

Why do you think of defying me? Who do you think you are? Elphaba? You ain't defying any gravity here, my love. No. I like you like that. You're fucking depressing. What do they call it these days? Emo? he continued.

She'd been like this for about two weeks. No one could locate her. She was in a sad, dark place. The walls here were mildewed and stained opaque with dingy hues. Her wrists and ankles were bound, and her hair was a tangled mess with no brush to be located. Ella felt swollen with loneliness.

You're dreadfully disgusting, you know. That's why you're so undesirable. Undesirable. That's what you told him, right? When you were locked up in that hospital? Pity you couldn't get those cuts deep enough. Mama would probably comment on that fault as well.

His voice, no matter how consonant the intonation, was always scornful. He was the one she couldn't escape. No matter how many times she fled for the care of another, no matter how many shoulders she cried on, or how many friends claimed her, she returned. She returned because he was more abusive than any physical pain, and subconsciously, she liked this.

He sat on the edge of a splintered table, while the dim lights flickered overhead. His arrogant eyes were aimed low as he used the box-cutter to clean perfect fingernails. His image was a deity, to Ella. All the prettiness, the smooth skin, the flux of color in his bright eyes,

That's their job, Ella. They're supposed to care. It's an act! They're paid to give a shit about your health. Hospitals. It's ironically sadistic, isn't it?

And you told him everything.

That asshole is out laughing about you as we speak. They all laugh at you. You're not even capable of keeping yourself from seeming so pitiful. Oh, woe is me. Pity me! I wanna cry every night, I wanna kill the world! People are disgusting! You... he nodded, using the razor on the back of his hand, ...are full of shit.

No tears came from her. Ella had heard this so many times she could mouth along. This was his monologue. This was his way of keeping her in place. He was everything to her, and therefore had the infallible power to pervert her rationale with his opinion. Nothing she could say could combat his logic. Her grey eyes fell on the exposed flesh doubled over itself - what looked like amophorous blobs of fat, and always would.

You know, Fattie McFatterson, no one wants a fat singer. The hell are you gonna be when you finally grow some character and grow the fuck up? I know. How about the same piece of garbage cashier you are now. You could lose that, you're just too lazy to built some fucking confidence. Here's a suggestion; lighten up on yourself, eh?

She didn't dare look at him. He was everything and would always be everything she would never have. Everything she would strive for and never achieve. He was her father. He was her uncles. He was her best friend. He was her imaginary love. His smile was bright, and lit up the tired room around them, and his laugh was self-assured.

I give up. she acquiesced, again. You win. You always win. You know you'll win so why even...

Just shut up. Why are you even here?

*...*

The sound of metal and plastic screeched across the plywood. The boxcutter landed at her feet and his feet hit the floor.

I'm sick of you. Go back to daydreaming. Seeya tomorrow, my love.

Seductively, she leaned as far over as her bulging belly would allow. Just barely did she take the plastic handle into her mouth, the taste of his rancid blood coating the surface. Eagerly, she swallowed the sticky film, and bitterly she swooned.

The shadows were melting. Everything was changing. The greys were blacks, and the dirty walls were off-pink. The light flickered off, and the sound of her own voice, an aesthetically pleasing alto, died away. Her wrists were ringed with marks, and the striped stockings on her small feet held holes. She would rather buy more CDs than clothing.

Thoughtfully, she sat in her bed, as the hum of her fan bought this subliminal, temporary cadence to the world outside. It would have been pitch black, had the moonlight not crept in through open curtains. Ella finally began recreating storylines to distract her from the ever-evolving patterns of self-abuse.

Why -was- she here, anyway?