The Pink Bottle

A breath.

Her eyes are forced closed, a wave of sensory stimulation rushing through her by the intoxicating, peaceful scent of memories trapped in a small, squarish, pink bottle.

A knife.

The images of it flash through her head quickly.  Bathroom stalls.  Compasses.  Seminar.  All-nighters.  Jackets.  Hiding... always hiding.  She can feel the once constant ache inside of her chest.

A necklace.

The scenes change from darkness and extremities to ones of personal milestones.  She remembers what it was like to want so desperately to look pretty and normal... and have no idea how.  She sees that little silver necklace reminding her to be good hanging around her neck every single day.

An orange.

Such a simple organism, such an example of humility.  Cautious gazes locked, challenges issued, people staring, the whole world watching.  The taste of that hellish fruit still haunts her.

A curse.

Stupid.  Ungrateful.  Lazy.  Brat.  She flinches as the sound of slamming of doors and the crash of glass shivers up her spine.  She can still hear those nights... the words repeat over and over, chipping away bits of her wellness.

It only takes a blink to awaken her from her daydream into her own senses.  She continues rubbing the lotion into her skin, her eyes straying a few times to her reflection in the mirror in front of her.  Oh, how she'd love to believe that the person she's seeing is completely transformed from the girl with the pink lotion and the silver necklace.  That was a phase, she says.  I was so stupid back then, she laughs at herself.

Really she just learned how to cover that girl up.