Based On Impulse

“Whore.”

“Bitch.”

“Slut.”

Things weren’t always like that, though. I never used to wear the shortest skirt in school or have so much of my cleavage always showing. But I guess it really is true: you get so used to getting called something, and you start to believe it. So instead of attempting to deny the insults being hurled at me from either side of the locker-lined hallway, I focus on the double doors at the end of the white-tiled road. Like some kind of slutty Dorothy.

Only with a lot more piercing stares aimed my way, and a lot less friends to help me through my year. I shift my pile of books from one arm to the other, sending a flirtatious and fake smile covered in disgusting cherry scented lip gloss to a dark haired boy. He rolled his eyes and turned back to his friend, leaning a shoulder against his locker.

Funny, he didn’t seem so disinterested last month at a party where we hooked up. He insists he was drunk as shit to his friends, but believe me: his breath was clean as snow, with the slightest taste of peppermint. Then my heels lead me to my classroom, and I disappear from the view of the people who hated me. Only the enter a room where I was not wanted.

As I finally climb into my car at the end of the day, I’m relieved to be getting out of that torture chamber for the weekend. Turning the key in the ignition to my hand-me-down black 2006 Chevrolet HHR, I carefully pulled out of the school parking lot. My parents hated owning any one car for more than a year, apparently. I had never been a huge fan of it, but at least it got me places I needed to go.

As I reached my own house, I relaxed back into the driver’s seat, turning off the car. I stared at the Dodge Caliber my mother owned in front of me. A new thought entered my mind, and I wondered if I had to enter the house once again. From the cream colored house that looked like every other one on the block, a white curtain was drawn slightly to side, a face I could not see but knew was there peering down at me. Sighing, I grab my small backpack from the passenger seat and sling it over my shoulder. Opening the car door, I slide out and carefully make my up the blacktopped driveway. I easily made my way up the porch and through the pale plain white door with a shiny golden-colored doorknob.

Stepping onto the entrance mat laid out over the expensive wooden flooring, I slid off my shoes quietly as I hoped my mother would not exit her retreat from upstairs. Feet bare, I crossed the grand entry hall into the kitchen, filled with stainless steel appliances and a overall modern look. The flooring changed from wood to white speckled tiles, sucking the heat from the room. Opening the refrigerator door, I grab a couple of Rockstars and an apple. From the cupboards I fetch a bag of yet unopened chips. Footsteps sound from the stairs, and I hurry to gather the food in my arms. Before I can flee the kitchen, however, my short brunette mother is leaning against the door frame. She’s a strict business woman, and definitely looks the part.

“You’re really eating all that? What are you, pregnant? Who’d you fuck this time, whore? It does look like you’re gaining weight.” She stated casually, as if the words meant nothing to her.

“It’s a snack. For later.” I explain helplessly. She rolls her eyes like that boy in the hallway today, and moves further into the kitchen. I quickly dodge her and speed out of the kitchen, down a different pair of stairs, and into my room. Shutting the door behind me, I pad across the dark carpet and set my snacks on the darkly stained desk. I open a can and take a sip of the Rockstar before looking back down at the top of my desk covered with papers, writing utensils, food, and other random items I tended to hoard.

Staring hard at the chips, I gave in and threw chips in the little garbage can next to my bed. I’d have to go on a diet tomorrow. I lay myself down against my bed’s headboard, over the black sheets covering the mattress. Looking down at myself, I was filled with a sudden disgust for what I had become. I had lost my whole life to other people’s expectations of who I was. Based on a sudden urge, I dragged myself off my bed and sulking corner to the bathroom attached to my own room.

I stood in front of the mirror, studying my frustrated face. My light blue eyes I had once thought were so pretty were like two empty voids, troubled and hurt. My long bleached hair swept down past my shoulder blades, because I couldn’t keep my boring brown. I had thin lips, but any other flaws were hidden by the make-up I so dearly depended on. And suddenly, I can’t stand to look at myself anymore.

I really wouldn’t be able to tell you why I did what I did next. Perhaps it was from forgetting to take my antidepressants that day - I had taken them for so long I forgot what they did. But in reality, I highly doubted my daily dose of Zoloft would have been able to prevent me from punching the mirror in front of me with all the might I had in me. I’ll admit it wasn’t much, but it was enough to shatter the glass, leaving tiny chips of it everywhere and blood gushing down my hand.

I didn’t want to be the town whore anymore. But even I knew that once you were labeled, no matter what you did it was practically impossible to change it. As I continued to stare at my bloody hand that had not moved from the broken mirror, a thought occurred to me. It was sluggish in forming, but once it did I couldn’t shake it off. No one cared about a stupid slut. No one even wanted her around.

I turned to the bathtub/shower combination in the bathroom. Turning on the warm water and plugging in the stopper, I went to lock the door. No one would even think twice about a silly whore dying. No one would ever even notice. I didn’t bother to shed my clothes as I put a single foot into the partially filled tub. In another second, I was kneeling down in the bath as water continued to pour. The stinging sensation from my hand filled my mind, so I couldn’t feel anything else. I was acting on a simple impulse my brain was telling me to follow.

A single breath filled my lungs before I dipped my face into the water, shutting my eyes as it washed over me. Even as the need for air consumed my body, I refused to give in. Just as my lungs felt to explode and I felt extremely faint, a sequence of flashes crossed my mind. But they weren’t images of my life like I had always been led to believe, but a series of words that pretty much summed it up.

Whore. Disappointment. Fake. Suicide. Impulse.