those noises by yourself ⦠how inelegant.
I wonder how Drew will die? He might pierce his heart with a long knife and then collapse on a pre-readied funeral pyre. For me, I donât mind death, I just donât like the idea of pain. I would take pills, one by one, savouring them like M&Mâs. I love the taste of Ibuprofen, but I donât know how long it needs to take hold, so I would have my letter written the night before and I would have clean hair and shaved legs. I would lay myself on my bed, with arms folded across my chest, holding in my left hand the list of songs I want played at my service, the photo of me I want to adorn the programme, and the people I want at my funeral. Everyone who had not invited me to their parties at junior school would be invited and made to sit at the front.
Drew would be so struck by my death that he would write a concept album about the little girl, too good for this world, who so touched and inspired him. The girl on the cover would look like me but better. It would sell seventeen million copies. T-shirts with BETTER-ME on the front would be freely available at Kensington Market and Camden Lock. Not so much an album, more a cultural phenomenon.
But I wouldnât kill myself. If I did, I wouldnât be able to think about killing myself anymore. And I wouldnât be able to think about Drew. Part of me says that if I did it, he wouldnât be that impressed anyway. Heâd just be jealous that I beat him to it. He might think I stole his idea. Everyone always thinks Iâm stealing their ideas. When I sit next to Treena in class, she always covers her tests with her arm, even though all sheâs done so far is write down her name.
The Maths teacher asks me again: âWhat is the answer to number twenty-three?â I had completely forgotten the question by now. She writes it on the blackboard. The squeak of the chalk makes me gag. I look at the snail-trail of white powder dotted across the board, but all I see are Drewâs cuts beginning to come undone. The scars that were starting to heal turn purple, then blossom into red, like an atmospheric David Lean shot of a flower.
But before the shot has come fully into focus, David Lean dies and David Cronenberg takes over. The dried blood is splitting and coming off in lumps. The wounds are opening, wider and wider. I can see the flesh inside his wrists. The blood pumps out and sprays across the room, splashing the teacherâs blouse and making it stick to her breasts. The blood renders the
faux
cream silk a translucent pink and I can see her nipples. The fact that I can see my Maths teacherâs nipples distracts me, momentarily, from the carnage in the classroom.
The teacher asks again. âWhy are the rest of the class on number twenty-three and youâre only on number three?â
I sigh and throw down my Biro. âBecause theyâre good at Maths and Iâm not.â The blood is gone. I see the question in front of me. It is a dumb question.
At lunchtime I stumble down the hallway to the canteen, where Treena is waiting for me. Girls sit as far away from her as possible. She is chewing tuna casserole with her mouth open. The girls at Griffins have enough of a food phobia as it is without Treena making it appear even more disgusting. When she sees me, she sticks her tongue out, displaying, on the end of the puce muscle, a lump of filo pastry and fish. Atthe next table Cassie Souter is making exaggerated and compulsive chewing motions with her mouth. There is nothing actually in her mouth. She is chewing her own spit to fool her stomach into thinking she has eaten and is therefore not hungry. She weighs six stone.
Treena is cruel to the anorexics. When she first arrived at the school, she gawped at the walking skeletons whose faces were so thin, the skin stretched across their bones like clingfilm. She stared in a caring way. But now the milk of human kindness has turned sour, and
I wonder how Drew will die? He might pierce his heart with a long knife and then collapse on a pre-readied funeral pyre. For me, I donât mind death, I just donât like the idea of pain. I would take pills, one by one, savouring them like M&Mâs. I love the taste of Ibuprofen, but I donât know how long it needs to take hold, so I would have my letter written the night before and I would have clean hair and shaved legs. I would lay myself on my bed, with arms folded across my chest, holding in my left hand the list of songs I want played at my service, the photo of me I want to adorn the programme, and the people I want at my funeral. Everyone who had not invited me to their parties at junior school would be invited and made to sit at the front.
Drew would be so struck by my death that he would write a concept album about the little girl, too good for this world, who so touched and inspired him. The girl on the cover would look like me but better. It would sell seventeen million copies. T-shirts with BETTER-ME on the front would be freely available at Kensington Market and Camden Lock. Not so much an album, more a cultural phenomenon.
But I wouldnât kill myself. If I did, I wouldnât be able to think about killing myself anymore. And I wouldnât be able to think about Drew. Part of me says that if I did it, he wouldnât be that impressed anyway. Heâd just be jealous that I beat him to it. He might think I stole his idea. Everyone always thinks Iâm stealing their ideas. When I sit next to Treena in class, she always covers her tests with her arm, even though all sheâs done so far is write down her name.
The Maths teacher asks me again: âWhat is the answer to number twenty-three?â I had completely forgotten the question by now. She writes it on the blackboard. The squeak of the chalk makes me gag. I look at the snail-trail of white powder dotted across the board, but all I see are Drewâs cuts beginning to come undone. The scars that were starting to heal turn purple, then blossom into red, like an atmospheric David Lean shot of a flower.
But before the shot has come fully into focus, David Lean dies and David Cronenberg takes over. The dried blood is splitting and coming off in lumps. The wounds are opening, wider and wider. I can see the flesh inside his wrists. The blood pumps out and sprays across the room, splashing the teacherâs blouse and making it stick to her breasts. The blood renders the
faux
cream silk a translucent pink and I can see her nipples. The fact that I can see my Maths teacherâs nipples distracts me, momentarily, from the carnage in the classroom.
The teacher asks again. âWhy are the rest of the class on number twenty-three and youâre only on number three?â
I sigh and throw down my Biro. âBecause theyâre good at Maths and Iâm not.â The blood is gone. I see the question in front of me. It is a dumb question.
At lunchtime I stumble down the hallway to the canteen, where Treena is waiting for me. Girls sit as far away from her as possible. She is chewing tuna casserole with her mouth open. The girls at Griffins have enough of a food phobia as it is without Treena making it appear even more disgusting. When she sees me, she sticks her tongue out, displaying, on the end of the puce muscle, a lump of filo pastry and fish. Atthe next table Cassie Souter is making exaggerated and compulsive chewing motions with her mouth. There is nothing actually in her mouth. She is chewing her own spit to fool her stomach into thinking she has eaten and is therefore not hungry. She weighs six stone.
Treena is cruel to the anorexics. When she first arrived at the school, she gawped at the walking skeletons whose faces were so thin, the skin stretched across their bones like clingfilm. She stared in a caring way. But now the milk of human kindness has turned sour, and
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