A girl, fifteen, laid on the chequered bathroom floor, ice blue beside snow white. Chilling tears trickled down her cheeks. Face scrunched, writhing under the hospital light, lifeless, a halo on the ceiling. The door's closed; it hadn't moved for the past hour. Silence ringed alarm bells, pulsating with each breath, with each push, with each scream. Hers slowly faded. A new cry began, a new cry never heard before, a new cry that she had the pleasure of hearing first. It mirrored hers; it's like this new cry had taken away her sorrow. Euphoria filled the gaps. With each scream, with each push, with each breath, the euphoria strengthened in her veins, numbing her. Picking up the new cry to rest in her arms, blood smearing on her skin, she stood by the bathroom sink, turning on the cold-water tap, swiping the water with her paper hands and washing off all the blood. The red thinned, they left through the door with the new cry hidden behind her hooded jacket. The door handle left dust on her hands. She swept it off letting it fly away like ash in the wind.
A year later and the new cry had a name, "Apain". "You're Apain in the ass, such Apain, why are you such Apain." Occasionally her grandmother used her second name, "Summer".
At two, Summer could speak, a bit. She spoke enough to know. She knew that Summer was her actual name. She knows that now. Pain was more of a nickname that her mother gave her. Her grandmother taught her that. Her grandmother taught her a lot, how to walk, how to talk, how to wave, the necessities in life.
Her time as a three-year-old was peaceful.
Nursery began the next year. She had the chance to speak to other kids for the first time. She had no brothers, no sisters, not even cousins. She didn't even know those words until a few weeks after her first day. A word she knew but didn't understand in nursery was "dad". She grew up thinking it was a curse word, she'd be punished all the same if she said it. A slap round the back of the head, a backhand to her cheek, all the proper precautions – she deserved it, she said a bad word. She heard a lot of the kids say dad, including her first friend, Rachel. Rachel smiled with her dad, laughed with her dad, hugged her dad, kissed her dad, just like how Summer kissed her grandmother, hugged her grandmother, laughed with her grandmother, smiled with her grandmother. Rachel was always happy, Summer always copied. In the end, they were both happy for as long as they were together.
On their first day of school, Rachel and Summer stood together, hand in hand like a married couple. They were sisters. Rachel had a younger brother, but she wanted a girl. Summer was that girl. Summer just wanted someone. Rachel was that someone. Every morning they would meet by the corner shop – Rachel with her dad, Summer with her grandmother – and they would walk down the street to school. Rachel's dad and Summer's grandmother talked, leaving Rachel and Summer to walk a bit ahead and learn how to gossip. They learnt a lot from each other, like how when Summer was three, she often went to the nearby fields. Her grandmother would take her. They'd spend entire days laying in the grass, ruining clothes, and taking in the perfumes. Sweet, vibrant, and refreshing, like the waffles and peach ice tea her grandmother would make her when they got home from their expeditions: the petals would tickle her feet and when it started to rain, they would sit beneath a willow tree where the occasional droplet would trickle down her cheek.
Her time as a six-year-old was peaceful.
A few months after her seventh birthday, a boy in her class, Jacob, asked her to be his girlfriend, unaware of social awkwardness. She agreed, not quite sure what it meant, and that was that, her first boyfriend. She was unsure whether she was a girlfriend or not. Yes, she was a girl, and yes, they became friends over last year, but Rachel always told her that she wasn't actually his girlfriend. "Girlfriend and girl friend mean completely different things," she would say, "girl friends hold hands and hug, girlfriends kiss." Summer had never kissed a boy before. She found the thought of it off putting.
Despite Rachel's definitions, Jacob and Summer remained "boyfriend and girlfriend" in each other's eyes. Jacob was athletic. He almost always won the 100m race on sports days and always made up lost distance on the relay. But above athletic, he was funny. Apart from Wednesdays, he always made her laugh, it wasn't like a comedian, it was just natural. But above it all, he was kind. Wednesdays weren't so bad with Jacob. He was the light to complete the rainbow.
Her time as a nine-year-old was peaceful.
It was the final year of primary school and Jacob was moving to another part of the country. And with him, a part of Summer left too. They knew they couldn't be together, and Rachel reminded her of that. "You two don't even have phones, how are you going to talk to each other? Anyways, Summer, you've been gaining weight for the past few years, and your face is turning into the waffles you keep eating. You won't get a boyfriend again like this. Don't worry, I'll tell you exactly what you've got to do."
In her room, getting ready for her first day of high school, Summer pulled out a box of makeup. She applied the primer, then the foundation, but not used to doing it herself, she asked Rachel to help her with that. Next, she tied up her hair in a ponytail that fell over her shoulder like a snake, with two strands falling down the sides of her face like wings. She does this every morning before school. She would tighten two bracelets on her left wrist: one a friendship bracelet between her and Rachel (who joined the same high school as Summer) and the other a rose gold bracelet with no special meaning. She had to wear a uniform, so there was little she could do there to stand out, but at Rachel's advice, she would roll up her skirt slightly. Summer felt more confident doing this as Rachel had helped her lose weight over the summer holiday. Within the first few days she felt wanted. Any boy with confidence wanted to be around her, wanted to talk to her, wanted her. One day Rachel said to Summer, "We could make some money from this." So, they did.
Her time as a twelve-year-old was peaceful.
As her body developed, so did her suitors. By thirteen, Rachel and Summer had earned enough to buy any clothes they wanted: Gucci, Prada, Versace – they were luxury, which in turn brought them more suitors. Their suitors came from more than just their high school. All the boys in town went to them, regardless of location. Money for happiness was a simple transaction – a balanced transaction. At first Rachel found it a little awkward but she quickly adapted to her new way of life. Summer, however, struggled. "What's wrong? Look at you, your gorgeous, your fit, your healthy. The boys want you more than me," Rachel would tell her. To Rachel, Summer had developed into more of a woman than she had, and she wanted Summer to realise that. "You, Summer, are a woman. They are little boys. You have the power here; you need to remember that." One day Summer found herself walking home along the street after a job. The sky overcast; Summer didn't have an umbrella; the weather app on her new phone said there was little chance of rain. She was about to get on the bus, so she pulled out her wallet – dust; she had forgotten her card. A two hour walk home greeted her and so did the downpour – "So much for "little chance of rain"-." An hour's walk later, she still had another hour to go. Clothes soaked, makeup blurred, she went into a public bathroom and washed it all from her face. Looking into the mirror she revolted. So pale, so weak, "I look like paper." With no makeup on, she shivered by the door handle. She feared a light might shine through the clouds and burn through her, leaving her a pile of ash blown away in the wind. The rain persisted. The bathroom grew colder. She thought flying a better death than freezing and left. Swinging the door open, preparing to run home before the rain or any eye could fall on her, Summer crashed into a guy about to walk into the men's bathroom next door. The first thing Summer noticed was how hard the muscles of his arms were as she collided with him: strong, much stronger than her. "Are you okay?" the guy asked, picking her up and inspecting her for bruises. She blushed, hoping to add a little colour to her canvas. The guy pulled back his face for a bit – his chin was clean shaved, and his hair held strong under the rain – and lost himself in hers. He offered to take her home and they got into his car. It was warm, so warm, so much warmer than her home, so much warmer than her suitor. It was so warm it released a tear from her eye. "Are you okay?" At this she lost it. To this stranger, to a guy whose name she didn't even know, didn't even want to know, she let it all out: her mother, her grandmother, her boyfriend (at heart Jacob was still her boyfriend), she told it all to him; how her mother died when she was three, how her grandmother died when she was six, and how Jacob had stolen a piece of her at nine then left; she told him how she had to move in with her friend Rachel and her dad who always looked at her with the eyes of a griever looking at a tombstone; she told him how Jacob had stolen her soul so all she had to sell was her body; she told him how she felt like a mannequin, a mask, an actor on the side, an extra; she told him how she was hideous and that he shouldn't look at her for too long out of fear that he may turn to stone. At this, he took her hand and stared directly into her eyes. She was silent, she couldn't respond, her tears had blocked her throat. He didn't turn to stone, quite the opposite. His face looked so animated, as if it were swelling and he was fighting to keep it down. He opened the compartment in his car and took out a see-through plastic bag. In the bag were pills, like the ones her mother used to take. He took one out and passed it to her. He told her it was medicine, it would cure her sadness, it would all go away, puff, ash in the wind. She complied, remembering how calm her mother would be afterwards. And with a gulp, she was gone – ash in the wind.
At fourteen, she was expelled by her school and her home. Rachel's dad caught her one night with the guy and was waiting for her at the door. "Slut, Whore, Slag," those were her new names. He grabbed her by the wrist, bruising it purple, and dragged her up the stairs, slammed open the door (Rachel was out doing a job) and threw her on the bed; Summer cracked her head on the bed frame and went blank. She didn't say goodbye to Rachel, she didn't think it necessary. They were colleagues, they would stay in contact that way. Summer moved in with the guy, whose name was "Boss" or "Dad" depending on the day. Summer finally had a dad of her own. Every night before bed, like the warm milk her grandmother used to give her, he would give her some medicine, and that would fix her. Each pill was like cement; they would fill her up while she slept and smooth over the cracks. Each morning she would have to apply all the makeup Rachel had taught her to use; she was a woman now, she was aging and had to hide the signs. She struggled working. It felt so routine and cold she left it all together. Only he could bring her warmth and protection from the world, outmuscling the rain. He convinced her to work again, saying "I don't earn enough." It was for him this time so she could bear the cold nights, the slow nights, the painful nights; she'd even work on Wednesdays, all for him. She never cried any more, he wouldn't let her, so with each droplet trickling down her cheek, she didn't squirm or revolt, all she thought of was him, and that kept her calm. One night he left, leaving her and her leaching bump together in his home. He did this often, he didn't allow Summer to get the shopping, not in her condition. It was getting late and he hadn't come home yet. It was her birthday tomorrow too; she turned fifteen at midnight. Scared and frightened, the thought of having a part of her taken again put her into shock. She froze, unable to blink, staring blankly at the wall, the dust that scuttered off it. One particle reached her nose, which she breathed in, shivering her head with its indescribable touch. She couldn't bare it; the medicine bag was empty, so she stumbled her way out the door, under the streetlight, and into town. A few blocks down and a searing pain chased a sixth sense from her womb to her brain; the baby was coming. She staggered her way to the closest public bathroom. She laid herself on the chequered floor, ice blue beside snow white. Chilling tears trickled down her cheeks. Face scrunched, writhing under the hospital light, lifeless, a halo on the ceiling. The door's closed; it hadn't moved for the past hour. Silence ringed alarm bells, pulsating with each breath, with each push, with each scream. Hers slowly faded. A new cry began, a new cry never heard before, a new cry that she had the pleasure of hearing first. It mirrored hers; it's like this new cry had taken away her sorrow. Euphoria filled the gaps. With each scream, with each push, with each breath, the euphoria strengthened in her veins, numbing her. Then the new cry stopped. The bathroom was silent. Euphoria no longer felt at home and left. Both cries had faded like ash in the wind.
Her time as a fifteen-year-old was peaceful.