The Bully (Part 4)

Tipping the bottle up into my skirt, I picked up a couple of chalky white pills, and lifted the bottle of water. I put a pill into my mouth, and swallowed. I put another in and swallowed, washing it down with a little water. I picked up another two, when a voice spoke, echoing in the tiny subway.

"Don't do it."

I looked around. A girl, perhaps a couple of years older than me stood two meters away. She was wearing a tiny skirt, and a fluffy cropped top, showing her pierced belly button. On her legs were a pair of fish net tights, and her feet wore a pair of very high white sandals. Her face was plastered with make-up, and her hair was short. Almost as short as her skirt. She looked like a prostitute.

"What's it to you? I deserve to die. No-one loves me. I've got nothing else to live for. Why can't I be at peace anywhere I go?" I looked her in the eyes, and I felt tears coming. "All I want is for the pain to stop. For everyone to stop treating me like dirt. Especially Pauline," I spat.

The girl came and knelt down beside me. "Killing yourself won't help." she said. "All you'll achieve is letting Pauline win, and upsetting your parents." She reached out, and lifted my chin, looking into my eyes. "How old are you?"

"I'm thirteen." I replied. I saw her wince. "And my father left me when I was two, and my mother hates me, and I'm being bullied at school, and I have no friends."

"I'm sorry about your father. But your mum doesn't hate you. Trust me. Does she know where you are?" the girl looked at me.

I burst into tears, and the girl leaned over, and gave me a long hug. "Do you know where you are?" she asked. I shook my head, unable to speak. "You're in Folkstone."

I felt a little more relieved. I knew where I was, and it was miles from where I lived.

"Where do you live?" she asked.

"I live in Sittingbourne." I said, and she gasped.

"How on Earth did you get over here?" she cried.

"I ran." I shrugged.

"Jesus! Do you do that often?" the girl was clearly amazed.

"Not really. Only when I feel like it."

"That's probably why you're so thin!" she exclaimed. I wasn't that thin. In fact, I was fat.

"I'm not. I'm fat." I said, in disgust.

She stared at me. "You're not fat!" she said. "Do you eat properly?"

"Of course!" I said indignantly. "I eat good meals several times a day."

"How much do you weigh?" she asked.

'That's it,' I thought. 'This girl is far too nosy.'

"It's none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me.." I said, indicating I wanted to be left alone.

The girl was more stubborn than I thought.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Look, I'm Christine. Just hear me out, and then if you want to kill yourself, do so. OK?"

"OK," I agreed, grudgingly.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Charlotte." I replied, getting comfortable to listen to what Christine had to say.

I sat in the subway, crying. Christine held me tight.

"It's alright, Charlotte. Just put the pills back in the bottle, and put them away. Fiona's alright. And you'll be alright too."

"I can't go back, though, Christine. Pauline is always waiting for me, she and her gang. They're making my life hell. I can't go back."

"Shh," Christine whispered, rocking me back and forth. "I'm not making you do anything. But you can't stay here." She looked at me, gazing intently into my eyes. "Go back to your Mum, and get her to change schools, or move house, or something. Tell her about everything. I mean everything. Your bulimia included."

"I don't have bulimia. Only thin people have bulimia."

"What else do you call eating to excess, and then throwing it up again?" she asked. She had a point. Did I have bulimia? How could I have bulimia?

"How many times a day do you throw up, Charlotte?" Christine's face wasn't prying, it was concerned. She seemed to be about the only person who was concerned, and I only met her an hour ago. Was she what I could call a friend?

"A- about nine times." I said, cutting the amount by a few. In truth, I wasn't exactly sure, but I knew it was more than nine times.

Christine's jaw was practically touching the ground. She was shocked beyond belief. "Nine times, Charlotte? Every single day?"

"Yes." I was unable to say anything else.

"Oh, God." she shook her head, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Charlotte, you are ill. You do have bulimia. Do you know.." she trailed off, and looked away. She didn't want to get my back up. I didn't want to get her back up, either. She was the only one who paid me any proper attention since the beginning of secondary school. Everyone else either ignored me, or didn't bother to find out if anything was wrong, or told me off for not doing the work properly, or beat me up, or neglected me. All the times everyone said that people with eating disorders were trying to get attention, I didn't believe it, but thinking about it, I do want attention. But not the attention I've been getting this past year, and beyond.

Suddenly, I was prepared to listen. "Did I know that.." I said looking at Christine, urging her to go on.

"Your teeth are slowly rotting away, because you are bringing up so much acid from your stomach each day.." she trailed off again.

I looked at her, thinking.

"I brush my teeth afterwards."

"That's even worse." Christine said, rather listlessly. She seemed upset.

"Christine, I can't go back. Please don't make me." I said, changing the subject, as I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Let me stay with you."

"You can't stay with me," Christine said. "I live on the streets myself. "

I stared. "How long have you lived on the streets?" I asked, curiously.

"Two years." Christine replied, somewhat shortly.

My jaw nearly hit the ground.

It was several weeks later. Christine had succeeded in stopping me from killing myself, yet I was still throwing up everytime I ate something, which was less and less often. My appetite had decreased rapidly since I started living on the streets with Christine, and I was now earning good money, sometimes in excess of œ100 a night. Prostitution wasn't something I particularly enjoyed, but there were plenty of men who wanted to play around with a thirteen year old. It was disgusting, but it was good money. And I wasn't as nervous as before, about approaching men and telling them the rates. Still, the fear of being taken advantage of was still there. I hadn't been in contact with Mum yet, but I didn't think she'd be worried. She was never worried before, she just pretended. And anyway, she would stop me from doing this, because I was being independent for once, earning my own money. I could buy new clothes, size 8, and soon everytime I stepped on anyone's scales, it would be a game to see what it would be like to lose a few more pounds, always promising myself if it felt weird, I would put the weight back on.

It never felt weird. It felt good, being so thin for once. I had my hair cut, I was fed up with it being so long. It covered my face, and Christine told me I had such a pretty face. So I had my hair cut into a short bob, just above my jawbone. I no longer had two chins, and my face looked more defined. Yet I still thought I was too fat. I would stare at posters and pictures and shots of Naomi Campbell on the catwalk, thinking, 'I want to be that thin. She is so beautiful.' and I knew I had the will power to be that thin. I didn't think that because Naomi was so tall, she looked thinner than she was. I just saw a thin woman, beautiful, famous, lots of money, and everyone liked her. I wanted to be like her.

Every day, I would sit on a park bench, and I would think back to the beginning of year 7 at school. If I were at school then, I would be in my spring term in year 8. I didn't know what was happening there. I wanted to leave it all behind anyway! I wanted more than anything to leave my past year behind.

If only I could, I would be in school, I wouldn't be parading about on the streets almost half naked in order to pick someone up and earn enough to buy some fluids, and food to satisfy occasional urges to binge.

I could go home, and be with Mum, and be happy, and not give her any reason to be worried if she could feel worried about anything. But then, if I went back then, she'd be so angry, I didn't dare. I missed my Mum, and I thought I wouldn't, but I thought Mum would be more angry with me than worried about me.

I was scared on the streets now. Christine had gone, and left me behind. I was on my own on the streets, I had to find somewhere to shack up, and somewhere to wash my hair every day. I had to show off everything I could at night, in order to get the cash. It was astonishing how many married men wanted to play around with a thirteen year old behind the wife's back. It wasn't the married men I was that worried about. It was the boys of about eighteen and nineteen. They were intimidating, especially when they approached me all at once, and I was scared they would drag me off and rape me. They would just hurl insults, call me a fucking hooker, and saunter off, feeling macho. What they saw was a fat and ugly prostitute, and I knew it. I had to keep dieting, and throwing up. I couldn't let the fat beat me. I had to be slim for once, so I kept throwing up. I starved myself for days on end, and then I'd binge, and throw up.

The streets were my enemy. The most frightening part of every night was when the street lamps were turned off, and everything was black. Every single noise made me alert, my eyes searching the dark shadows. Every morning I would wake up, my neck stiff with sleeping leaning up against some wall. I would shiver, because the mornings were always cold, and I grew to hate the crisp morning air, even though when I was at home I loved it. I would get up early in the morning, and go for a walk, or just stand in the garden, breathing it all in. Now, I hated it, and I longed to go home. But I knew I couldn't, because my mother would be so angry with me. I never once thought of the streets as my home. I thought of the house I once thought to be my own, my home. Every day, I dreamed that I would wake up in my soft warm bed, realise that everything was a nightmare, everything, and go downstairs for some toast and tea. But then, I realised, I would still be fatter than I was already, and it almost made me decide I didn't want it to be a nightmare.

Every time I ate something I was so scared of becoming fat that I made myself sick straight away. I thought that if anything was digested, I would gain so much weight, and whenever anyone said I was skinny, I said immediately, "No I'm not. I could be an elephant I'm so fat." In the end, they'd raise their eyebrows and walk off.

I got in trouble a few times, with the police. I had been lucky, they were only warnings not to go back on the streets again. But I had to, I had to earn money to keep me alive. I didn't really want to go back on the streets, because they were so frightening, and I was always alert for trouble.

One night, however, I went up to a middle aged man who had pulled over to wait for a friend coming out of a house. I flashed him a grin, and told him the rates. He smiled, and said he'd take an hour, and that he'd phone his friend to say he'd been delayed. I jumped in the passenger seat, and the guy took me back to his place. He started asking all these questions, how old was I, did I go to school, whether I did it because I enjoyed it or for the money, and then started getting more personal. I answered all the questions politely, and by that time, we had arrived at his place. As soon as I was in there, he dragged me upstairs, and tied me to his bed. He got some scissors, and cut all of my clothes off. Then he left me there, and went downstairs.

I was so scared. I didn't know what he was doing, and I couldn't get free. A few hours later, after the man had untied me, I shakily got some fresh clothes from my bag and pulled them on and ran out of the house. He had called all of his mates, and they had all come round and raped me. I hurt all over, and I ran to a secluded part of the city, where I threw up because I was so shocked. I hadn't even eaten anything, yet my stomach felt like lead. I wanted to die.

I reached in my bag for the paracetamol bottle, some water. No-one disturbed me, and I swallowed all forty seven pills in the bottle. And then, the world blacked out.

Part 5 of The Bully

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