Page 88 of Kill Me

“Prepare yourself,” I warn. “You’re not going to like this.”

Roughly 1 year after the ‘accident’

Tonight is my first proper date with a guy I’ve been talking to. I met him on a dating app while I was in the hospital—or so I thought. It turned out we had spoken previously, and he was just persistent.

I told him what had happened with the car accident, and he wasn’t phased. He asked if he could visit me and turned up with a bunch of flowers and a teddy bear on his way to work. I, quite honestly, swooned.

My only experience before him had been guys who had a ‘fat girl fetish’ and wanted to ride the rolls without the commitment. Without even a bit of butter to enhance my pleasure, or public acknowledgement that I was a human being and not a fucking animal.

He visited me every day that he could from that day. Some would say that it was a bit much. Others would say that he was a gentleman. But, honestly, I think he’s pretty fucking amazing. I’m still mostly in a wheelchair at the moment, using this contraption that supports me at chest height while I relearn to walk, and I’m living in a rehabilitation unit until I’m ready to return home. The breathing room from my mum has been nice, to be honest, but tonight, because most of my things are still at home, I decided to get ready there. The damage to my left-hand side means I can’t use my left arm at the moment. The bars have been removed, but I’m in what can only be described as arm prison. It’s a brace designed to keep my arm stabilised, but with that out of commission as well as my left leg, I needed the help of my mum to get ready.

I have issues with my weight; it’s no secret. But, so far, he hasn’t seemed bothered by it. He’s a bigger guy, what some would call a teddy bear. So maybe that has something to do with it. Being in the wheelchair and bed-bound for so long has only made the weight pile on more. I’ve gone up about three dress sizes, and I obviously can’t go clothes shopping, so I’ve settled on leggings and a blue oversized jumper dress. My left leg is out of a cast, so I can at least wear boots to complete the outfit.

I avoid mirrors at all costs. I have done my whole life. Conveniently, my mother decided to decorate the entirety of the house with full-length mirrors and likes to torment me with my reflection, but I’m hoping tonight will be different.

We’re in my room. I’m sitting in a chair in front of my desk, and she’s standing behind me straightening my hair. My hair has been nothing but a curly ball of frizz rotting away on my head for the last year. My hair is thick, dense, and there is so much of it that it quite literally takes forever. I’ve been sitting here for an hour doing my make-up singlehandedly. And I’m dying from overheating. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, dampening my vest top. Every time I apply a layer, it feels like it melts off. The side effects of the painkillers are rough. Hot sweats, cold sweats, and all of the funnest things you could ever think of are things I now experience.

Every so often she tugs my hair, and I hiss from the pain, triggering the memories of her smacking me around the head with the back of a plastic hairbrush from a young age if I so much as moved.

You would think that those things would change as you get older, but on the next hiss, a loud ‘thwack’ enters the room as she hits me on the back of the head with said brush. A wooden brush this time, I may add. The spice of life being variety and all that. “Ow, Mum. Please don’t do that!”

“Do you want me to do your hair or not?” She tugs my head in one direction whilst pulling the brush in the other.

“Well, of course, it’s not like I can do it myself, is it?”

“Then I shall do it as I please.” She huffs, grabbing hold of the hair straighteners and straightening the next strand. If I were an untrusting person, I would think she held the straighteners there for a moment too long on purpose.

“Maybe you should change your eyeshadow, Quinn?”

“Why?”

“I mean, it doesn't exactly scream classy. Trashy maybe. If I’m honest, you look like a whore.”

“Wow. Thanks, Mum. Who needs enemies, hey?”

“Well, would you rather I lie?”

“No, Mum. Of course not. Thank you for the advice.” I pick up the makeup wipes sitting next to my mascara and swipe off what I’ve already put on. I pick a light brown, with a slightly darker one on the edge, and opt for a small wing. It’s the best I can do with one hand; he’s just going to have to take me as I am.

I finish my eyeshadow and redo my base layer before brushing on some bronzer and a little bit of blush for colour, and picking up my mascara. It’s my favourite part of my makeup routine because I am blessed with good eyelashes. They’re long and curly and probably the only thing I genuinely love about myself. I swipe a layer on my lashes and wait for it to dry before applying a final layer.

“Is this better?” I look at my mum, hoping and praying that I won’t disappoint her. I don’t think I have it in me to do my face again. I’d rather cancel.

“It will do. It’s an improvement on nothing, I suppose. Let’s get you dressed. I need to make Eric’s dinner.”

“Mum, you know Eric is an adult, right?”

“The same could be said of you, Quinn. Yet here you are in my house with me doing your hair for you at the age you are.”

“It’s not exactly by choice that I’m having to get you to do it.”

“Is it not? Only you know how you ended up in front of the car that night. The pattern of behaviour beforehand would suggest it was self-inflicted.”

“I might not be able to remember that night, or the year before it, but I can tell you for a fact that I wouldn’t have walked in front of a car. If I wanted to die, I wouldn’t risk ending up in my current position, or worse, would I? Ending my life would be to take the pain away, not elevate it.”

“You say that. But, if my memory serves me correctly, there are plenty of times you’ve attempted to take your own life and unfortunately been unsuccessful.”

Her words reverberate in my brain like an echo. Did I hear her correctly?