Page 40 of Loving the Liar

One. Two. Three. Fou— I lose balance.

“Come on,” I grunt. I know when I feel right, I can do seven on Pointe. It should be even easier since I’m currently in flats.

Pirouette. Three. Again. Pirouette. Four. Again. Pirouette, two…

“Fuck!” I scream over the classical music.

I let myself fall to the floor, sitting cross-legged. Anxiety is eating me, making me heavy, and I can’t engage my core when I already feel so sick and tense.

All I can see is the state of my mom last night. All I can hear is the death in her voice. And all I can feel is the guilt that I still haven’t done my part to try to get us back in the Circle. It tastes disgusting at the back of my throat.

My hand drops to my right thigh, and I pull at my light pink ballet tights. Throwing my head back, I swallow tears, jaw clenched, and add another layer of thick pain to my heart.

I haven’t talked to my friends about any of this. They’re my support system, all of them, but this is too dangerous to share. What if I get them in trouble too?

It hurts. Everything hurts. In everyday situations, my brain has no way of differentiating whether what I worry about is a life-or-death situation or not, and I feel stupid for it, always questioning if I’m making too big of a deal out of nothing.

This is worse. I think it’s truly life or death.

I feel the same way as if I were being chased by someone. I’m panting, body heavy, throat tight. My muscles are knotted, and I’m not sure if I’m in this rehearsing room or running through the forest, away from a pack of wolves.

When I look back down at my body, out of breath and with a need to gulp air, I’ve torn through my tights and scratched at my skin.

Pink marks have raised, the thin first layer of skin breaking. So I scratch again until tiny dots of blood appear. A twisted craving overwhelms me. Every time I hurt and see realistic proof of it, I want more.

Here is the evidence of how you feel inside. It’s real.

So I scratch again, violently, until there’s skin under my nails, blood thickening on my thigh, and waves of pain matching the aching in my heart. It relaxes my chest, allowing me to breathe. It feels good.

It feels so good I want more. In a frenzy, I get up and run to my bag. Suddenly, I’m unaware of everything around me. The classical music is loud, the pace quick, and I search through my bag like a crazed woman until I feel a little plastic box.

I’m sick, almost licking my lips at the idea of the pain that I’m going to feel. Pain is good. Pain makes you forget. I dig farther into my bag and pull out the antiseptic spray. I wouldn’t want to get an infection.

Sitting on the floor, I make a bigger hole in my tights, uncaring of where I am or who could walk in. I just want to feel something physical to match the darkness inside me. I spray my thigh where I scratched myself, relishing the stinging sensation, and open the plastic box.

I want to laugh with excitement as I pick up the wrapped blade. I peel open the wax paper and pinch the single-edge razor blade by the dull side. The mere act of holding it makes me feel slightly better. But when I press it against my thigh, I almost groan from relief.

I don’t slice. I don’t move. I don’t mean to hurt myself, just to feel release. So, all I do is press the cutting edge to my skin until I feel that weird sensation of it splitting. Our bodies are soft, and yet the second my skin opens, I feel a crack through my being. Like the anxiety breaks before it liquifies and creates a red line across my skin.

That’s all I do. I press delicately. If I’m not actively slitting, it’s not bad, right? It’s not… I’m not harming myself that way. Just relaxing.

I lie down on the floor when I’m done, savoring the fact that I’m finally able to take full breaths.

I’m ready to take on the day.

I finally stand up and do the same routine I do every morning after I’ve danced. I shower in the locker room, stick a band-aid on my razor cut, slip on my uniform, and do my makeup. Usually, I put on mascara and a tinted lip balm.

Today, I add some dramatic eyeliner on my upper eyelid. Then red lipstick and some blush on my cheeks. I undo a couple of extra buttons on my uniform and twist the waistline of my skirt until it’s a little too short, but not so short that anyone would see my scars. No one ever sees them because I do them high enough that they’re always hidden, even by my cheer skort. But I know they’re there. They make me feel alive.

I plaster a beautiful smile on my face, ready to rule my kingdom. Ready to face even the subjects who think they can take me down after what came out about my family.

I am Ella Baker, the queen of Silver Falls University. And today, I have one thing in mind.

Doing anything it takes to protect my family.

So, when I walk into Professor Reeves’s class, I give him my biggest, sluttiest smile.

Because that man is going to give me an invitation to the initiations before the end of the day.

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