She

The She

The time of her life. That was the image she wanted everyone to see,
even to the extent that she pretended it to herself sometimes. But when
the dark approached, sitting alone in a single rented bed-sit in the
dingy area of East London, she would find herself staring into space,
through the badly plastered wall, imagining wild passionate scenes of
her parallel life. She is the one going out every night, she is the one
being chased by men, she is the one answering the phone rather than
ringing around in desperation, she is the one with flawless perfect
skin when the morning comes. She is the one.

Although in other eyes she was a grown woman, inside she craved for the
unconditional security of the love a child receives from a parent. She
had never fulfilled her potential. Not quite doing as well as expected
throughout her school career, her parents had tried to be supportive
yet the father belittled her in other ways to numb the disappointment
of exam failure. The mask of false gaiety, sometimes used during forced
family reunions and visits of old forgotten friends, became entwined
with the normal everyday face until one day it was a mask no longer.
How long it had been going on she did not know, but she longed to be
young again, to be able to say and do anything and suffer no
repercussions.

The time of her life, but deeply unhappy within her soul. Although she
was popular with both men and women, she was a queen bitch most of the
time, just one more way of getting the attention she craved. Up for a
larf on a night out, a shoulder to cry on when having a down,
depressing day, the best friend anyone could ask for. But this was once
again a charade. If she were the best friend anyone could have, then
maybe they would return the favour. If she was the life and soul of the
party, maybe she would be invited back the next time rather than be
relegated to the C-list, where she actually felt she belonged. But
alongside these feelings was guilt. She had a good life, she was lucky.
A loving family, a reasonably good figure, a close knit group of loyal
friends and a good education behind her. So why the unsettling feeling
in the pit of her stomach the moment she woke up?

All her life she had glided through existence without looking too
deeply into the meaning of herself. She was afraid to see the cheap
falsity of city life, the insecurities of the people around her, that
she knew were there. Life revolved around not being left out, but not
being the prettiest one made her work even harder. She wasn't ugly, a
word she hated in itself, but she would always have to wear makeup, a
daily chore that never ceased to slowly grind down her self-esteem.
Never seeming to meet anyone she could love, this led to could anyone
love her? Was she unlovable? Of course her family loved her, but that
was a duty, a responsibility, a birthright. What she fundamentally
feared most from the empty life she led was loneliness. Never
experiencing the bond between lovers in the intimacy of sex, the
sensation of a life growing inside her, the anguish as best friends
soothe her as she feels her heart breaking beneath her breast, for how
can your heart be broken if you remain alone?

The time of her life. As a young girl, she had confided with friends
her life's ambitions, to make a difference, determined not to end up as
another eroding tombstone, overgrown weeds swamping the engraved
wording of her epitaph, another faceless soul rotting in the ground.
But disillusionment is a powerful force and the hole within her grew
daily, the whispers following her when she walked from the room
increasing in volume as each long day dragged past, 'Enchanting girl,
yet never really did as well as hoped for'. She ignored them of course;
her time would come. But it never did.

She would be happy, she decided, one day, but somehow did not have the
energy or conviction to persuade herself. She did a brilliant job on
others, her facade of enjoying her time in the city never slipping, but
this only resulted in increasing the chasm between her-self and those
she deceived. How long this illusion could go on she did not know, she
was gradually losing her grip on reality, on life, her blood dripping
drop by drop behind her as she stumbled along the grubby street, an
insignificant ant lost in the crack of life, scurrying blindly,
aimlessly trying to be busy enough so as not to think about her
pointless existence.

The time of her life. But this was not thought when they find her lying
once again alone, skin shrivelled in the now lukewarm water of a blood
stained bathtub. Hair plastered to her bony skull, mascara streaked
below the vacant eyes of a girl who had just stopped caring, maybe had
never cared to begin with. The razor discarded on the cold, ceramic
tiles, once used to shave teenager's legs before a night out, now for
slicing nineteen-year old soulless wrists.

It was the time of her life.