Déjà Vu; Synopsis
The Girl’s deadly, hidden habits have taken control of her. Hiding from the world, she lets her longing for ‘perfection’ rule her life. She struggles with nostalgia. The teen knows that her habits are sick, not that she would ever admit it. This is the story of her struggle for being perfect.
In the mirror, her eyes shone; the way a jewel does when it is slowly floating through the ocean’s deep blue waters towards it’s lonely eternity on the cold, sandy ocean floor. The Girl forced a smile, and then frowned, “Be happy,” she pleaded with herself, “look happy.”. So much time had passed since she had last been happy. She could not even remember what happy felt like. A wave of nostalgia came over her, quickly followed by several slow, salty tears falling from her grey eyes. She did not bother to wipe them away. Emotion was emotion, and she was just relieved to feel something.
Hours later The Girl was lying on her side, holding a pillow tight to her boney body, and staring at the clearly fresh burn wound on her thigh. “Pain is an emotion,” she rationalized with herself, “Emotion is good.”. The Girl got up, and dropped her pillow down onto the bed, revealing dozens of burns on her wrist; some healed, some healing; and some as fresh as the one on her thigh. With a shaking hand, she opened a small drawer on her vanity, and pulled out an old leather notebook along with a badly chewed on pen. ‘November 16th,” The Girl wrote, hand still shaking, ‘Old wounds have been opened, is there no end to this sick cycle?’. Quickly she slammed the leather cover down, and placed the book and pen, back in their drawer.
The lights of her bathroom flickered before settling on a nauseating shade of yellow-orange. The Girl started at the chipped hunter’s green wall, avoiding the mirror at all costs. She sat at the edge of the yellowed bathtub and took a first aid kit from under the sink. As she wrapped her wrist with gauze, a shiver ran down her spine. She had lived this moment so many times before. “Déjà Vu,” she whispered, remembering being seven years old and having her Grandmother explain what the word meant, “Déjà Vu,” the aged woman said, mouthing every syllable with her electric red lips, “it’s French , meaning seen before.” Another wave of nostalgia came over The Girl, but this time no tears fell; there were no tears left.
The Girl awoke to the light creeping through her slightly cracked window; next to her was an almost empty bottle of Nyquil. She turned over and sighed, while reaching for the glass of room temperature water left from the night before. She crept down the winding stairs. Placing the empty glass in the sink, she glanced at the clock above her stove; not that time even mattered at this point. Attempting to remain un-noticed, she ran up the stairs with unbelievable silence, back to the solitary of her room that comforted her so much.
She laid; paralyzed with thought. The only two sounds in her room were the beating of her heart, and the ticking of her clock; in union. In a way, her room was her; it was a part of her. Or maybe, she was a part of it. She shivered, despite the room’s warmth, but did not bother to put on a blanket. She just lay, shivering, paralysed by her thoughts.
She had, had it all figured out. She thought she had, had it all figured out. It was just years ago, although it felt like a lifetime, that she was a little girl, filled with promise, and life. Where she went wrong, she could never figure out. She had been corrupted on her path to perfection.
As she got up, her ribs became even more defined through her thin, white tank top. She could feel the acid from her stomach burning her throat. How long had it been since she had eaten last? Weak, she forced her bones down the winding stairs, carpeted in a soft, beige material. When she reached the kitchen she grabbed an old chipped plate with a faded floral pattern. She stared at the plate deciding if the calories were worth the relief from her still strengthening hunger pains. With a sigh, she opened her fridge and look between the only four items she would even consider consuming; carrots; lettuce; water; and an apple. The Girl took out the carrots; she peeled and sliced them into thin strips. As she ate, she had a lingering feeling of guilt.
Days passed, but to The Girl time meant nothing. To her the only thing that mattered was consistency; keeping up her sick patterns. Somewhere inside, The Girl knew that her habits were wrong, but that place only came out when a pen was in her hand. Her eating habits, solitude, and self harm were the only things she could control in her life. In her attempt to get a grasp on some part of her life, she may have destroyed it. The Girl had never meant for things to get to this point.
’94,’ she wrote beside the date. Above it were more numbers and dates, ’99, 103, 105, 111, 117, 123, 129’. She stepped off the scale, and turned around looking at her ribs in the mirror. “Five more pounds,” she bargained with herself, “Just five more.” The Girl left the bathroom, and slowly walked back to the room.
The Girl’s mother walked in the door four months later, and called out The Girl’s name. After receiving no reply, she walked up to The Girl’s room. She knocked. With no reply she opened the door to the room she had not entered in well over a year. She walked in and saw her daughter’s burned and boney unconscious body lying on the ground.
“She was sixteen,” her mother replied to the reporter, “just sixteen, when she starved herself to death.”