This is my first Skins fiction, so, if you decide to review, please be gentle with me ;)
Frankie Goes to Hollywood is her favourite band. Pink is her favourite colour. Her favourite food is nothing at all. Her name is… She can't really remember anymore.
The sky, as she looks up at it through dark sapphire eyes, is a clichéd light cobalt blue. There are odd, slightly random clouds knitted into the sky, the tones of grey and white blending into one another. The sun, the giant shining star in the sky is burning ferociously over one hundred thousand miles away, beams and pounds light down onto the land that is now encompassed within her sight. But, turning her head to the left, she looks up, and sees an almost transparent half moon, fading into the background. Wow, she thinks dreamily, it's so strange, how two things that depend on one another can exist at the same time without one another.
She is stood, balancing, on top of an old wooden bench. It's ever so ancient that even her anorexic weight is almost too much for it, and as she spins slowly around, waving her hands around in the wind, the wood creaks and splinters. The bench is stood ashamedly on top of one of the grandest hills in all of England. She used to come here when she was young, when she was seven or eight, just to think and relax and dream. But its situation is in an extraordinary place, looking over the entire city in its complete entirity. The bustling city is bursting with life and energy and excitement. The dull, bleak city blocks stand magnificentally, dotted all over the place, and there are millions of cars, honking their horns angrily, the drivers swearing at one another, anxious to be out of the traffic jams soon so they could get where they needed to be. It was all ever so fascinating. From this place, she could see every single person. They all looked so little, like ants, scurrying around, so insignificant in the big picture, but all so important and loved by themselves. You have to learn to love yourself after a while, because no one else is going to help or do it for you.
But the lights, those spectacular neon lights. They flash like diamonds underneath a spotlight. It's the middle of the day, in early October, and those lights are still on, enticing people. They are rather addictive, just to look at them. The bright yellows and oranges and limes, it's all so amazing. Everything is addictive to her, and therefore addiction is everything. But she learnt, a long long time ago, that you have to stay away from anything you love too much, because all it does is hurt you when it gets taken away.
There is a calm, soothing breeze. Her long locks of wavy, light blonde hair are blowing callously about, sometimes sticking annoyingly to her lipstick and her ankle length red and dark pink bohemian skirt does the same thing. She had two slides in her hair, holding back an unruly fringe. They are pink, with the little plastick gems encrusted upon them. She wears them every day. He bought them for her a couple of weeks ago, he didn't realize what message they gave her.
She waited in the rain for him. She waited twice, and neither time did he show up. She remembers how cold she was, how every droplet of freezing, unforgiving liquid splashed against her flesh, turning her white and frail with cold. She thought he loved her, and every time he let her down, she forgave him; because she's a freak, a crazy girl, someone who belongs in 'dippy-world'. She gives people too many chances. And in some way, that hurts the most. More than the insults, the lies, the fact that all he felt for her was a vague kind of friendship. Last time she saw him, she kissed him, after having pointed a gun at him. A water gun, but a gun nonetheless. And it was a desperate kiss, a kiss that was pleading and begging for him to love her back. It's your choice, it's always your choice, she had told him, giving him both the power and an ultimatum. And then, he left. Three days ago, he left, and that was when she really, really lost it. She prayed and cried and shrieked, wailing out to no one, screaming for him to come back. The reckless, ridiculous tears that streamed down her face wouldn't stop and the only thing that kept her living was gone. She still believes now that he can save her, he can save her at the end of it all.
She likes her t-shirt. She decided that a few weeks ago. It is tucked into the waistband of her skirt, which is quite high up, resting just below her ribs. Her t-shirt is white, and the words Frankie Says Relax are printed across it in bold, black lettering. Relax was always her favourite song. She used to listen to it when she was at home, reorganizing the food in her cupboards so that she wouldn't feel the need to regurgitate. She didn't understand how you could be sick if you didn't eat anything in the first place. And when times were hard, when she just couldn't cope with everything that was happening, she would just stop eating until they took her hospital.
The grass swarming across the hill is a fluroescent apple green colour. She gently jumps from the bench and sits down, cross-legged on it. She is so delicate, so fragile, like a little china doll. The miniscule strands of gradd jab into her when she tries to make herself comfortable, like green needles, like knives. Knives in her skin, piercing her flesh, crimson blood spilling and oozing from the slits. She doesn't like knives, they don't work properly. She tried them before, but all she gained from them were the seven thing scars on her right and left forearms. She likes them. They're pretty.
Silence makes you do crazy things. You make you do crazy things. And sometimes, doing crazy things is the only way to save yourself from yourself. Words that she wishes she could speak are just jammed in her head, because there is no one to speak them to. Alone, deserted, isolated, abandoned. At first, she just tried to convince herself that things would get worse before they got better. The latter was not true. No one listens anymore. Why? Why does no one listen? Doesn't anybody care? She doesn't ask for much, just a few minutes to talk, for someone to hear what she's saying. She hasn't spoken for over a week, not to her parents, her friends because no one understands. No one understands because no one even tries to anymore. Words are cut from her lips; she is silenced all the time, cut off by other people who think they have the right to talk over her.
She is aware that her feet are aching all over. She is aware of two blisters, one on each of her little pinkies, and there is a little cut on the back of her left heel. She had been walking for three hours before she finally decided to come back here. The sun is beating down on her head now. She feels sick, dizzy, she needs to eat. No, she doesn't. Yes, she really does. But she doesn't want to. Eating is bad. Food is sinful. Her condition interested people to begin with, but when it got old, everyone stopped caring. Even people at the clinic switched off. They forgot her name after a while.
There is a bottle of vodka in her right hand. She is smiling broadly, like always. She always smiles. She carefully unscrews the lid, and throws her head back, pouring the liquid down her throat. It sears against her flesh, and it feels like she is swallowing fire. Her pale, colourless cheeks slowly turn more and more red, and heat rushes through her body, setting her veins alight. She raises the bottle to her lips again and lets the vodka trickle, undiluted, drop by drop down her throat. Tears are rising in her eyes, held back only by a thin layer of self-restraint. She keeps drinking and it hurts so much. It hurts, it hurts, and it hurts. But it helps. The alcohol is almost like a friend and whilst she had the bottle clutched in her grip, she doesn't feel all so alone anymore.
She knows it's not healthy to drink this much. She hasn't eaten anything for four days and now, with this much alcohol surging through her system, she knows it had a large possibility of killing her. Why cares though? She doesn't, and it's not like anybody else does.
The sun is still shining, a happy little day, the ones where everyone is joyus and running around the streets and playing in parks. She can ruin the stereotype for everyone by dying on this day. It seems like nothing can go wrong, nothing bad will happen whilst the sun is beaming brightly, but she knows better. She's going to prove it. She stares grimly at the bottle, only one third of it left.
'Wow, it's so beautiful.' Her voice is sweet, melodic almost.
She is seventeen years old. Her favourite band is Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Her favourite colour is pink. She has never felt more alone than she does now. Her friends don't love her anymore; she's almost an inconvinience to them, a sin. Sin; something that is said to be wrong in the eyes of the law. Her name is… She is called… What is her name again?
She takes one last glug, the cold glass sending shivers down her spine when it comes into contact with her cherub pink lips. She kissed him with these lips. She kissed him not so long ago. She misses him, she probably always will.
A name suddenly pops into her head: Cassie. She likes that. It kind of feels like it fits. But, fits what exactly? She can't remember anything now. Eveything's going a bit blurry. The buildings are melting into the hills, swirls of grey and green are mixing together. She decides that Cassie is her name. the bottle falls from her quivering and convulsing hand and darkness claws in the back of her head. Maybe someone will care now when they find her, just maybe. Maybe it will be him. She hopes one day he will care. She loves him, and she likes her friends. There is no choice but to love everything, for everything has something to love in it, there is more choice with like. But for now, she is looking after herself; no one else will. It's just her and her name together in this big, wide, messy world. She eventually passes out, but still, she doesn't feel so alone anymore.