The hot, August sun burns my eyes. My dark sunglasses barely do their job. I have to eat. I know I have to eat, even though I have no appetite. Feeling weak and dizzy, I walk slowly down the noisy alley, to the bar across the street. The last thing I need is to faint with no one to find me. I sit down on a sofa in the bar, behind a wall packed with red wine bottles. I order a packet of chips and a Diet Coke. I know the chips are actually a snack in a packet. That’s how it is in Barcelona, but it’ll do the job. Even if I eat just a bit. I’ve lost even more weight this week and my pants are hanging loosely from my waist. I need to hike them up so that they don’t drag on the floor and get dirty. I’m such a mess. I’m happy with how thin I am, although I know I can’t afford to lose any more weight whatsoever. Still, my protruding hip bones make me happy and have provided some moments of relief during the past few days of torment.
My snack arrives with a small Diet Coke. I take a sip, open up the packet, and take out a chip. My fingers are soaked in oil. Just do what you have to. I put the chip in my mouth and chew it. A terrible feeling overwhelms me. Get over it. You don’t want to fall in the street. Danny will be on the first plane. I force myself to eat another chip.
I open up my laptop and go into my blog.
A response from Gwen Grinday: Two articles in one month! Crazy!!
Two articles? I have no idea what she’s talking about.
A response from Rachel Blodwin: Why don’t they interview you for the article? It’d be so cool.
What article are they talking about? I open another window on the Internet and go into Google. What am I looking for? I type “Talula”, then erase it. Then I type with a shaking hand “Talia Blum”. I click on the search icon, waiting to see what will come up.
The last post is from twelve hours ago: The Mirror’s online newspaper. They are really curious, huh? I open up the site and my jaw drops. My picture from my blog is there, spread over a quarter of a page.
Oh God, this cannot be good. It’s one thing for my readers to know who I am, but now I’m in the paper? Fuck! I’m going to get into trouble with the whole world. Again.
I begin reading.
“Talula is revealed.
“The intriguing blogger, who for the past few months has accumulated readers at a dizzying pace, is Talia Blum, a twenty-six-year-old Israeli living in London. After years of posting under an alias, she has chosen to expose her true identity, revealing her picture and name. She no longer wishes to hide behind masks. Whether it was done as a marketing gimmick intended to attract potential advertisers, or whether a complex girl is behind it all, as portrayed in her blog, the number of her readers has grown dramatically. There is no doubt we are talking about a talented and creative writer.
“Her descriptions about her sex life, her bipolar disorder, as well as her eating disorder, have become topics of conversation around the water cooler in offices all over the city.
“Her open invitation to her readers to take an active part in her life, to suggest ideas to help her win over her man’s heart, has produced a wave of creative reactions and prompted ongoing updates as to their success. Thus, her followers have been granted the privilege to see their suggestions take shape in her bedroom, at her work place, or at sneaky suppers.
“Even if we cannot verify the details, and it may well be a blog produced from her own creative imagination, there is no doubt the buzz she has created will force her to expose herself on her return from her holiday in Barcelona.
“You can read more of her adventures at the following link…”
Fuck, fuck, fuck! What the hell are they talking about? The topic of conversation, where? Why are people talking about me? This isn’t good. Danny will die, one second after he kills me. And Ben…I’m in trouble. I’m in big trouble and I am never leaving Barcelona.
On her return from her holiday in Barcelona…Do they think I’m on holiday? This isn’t what a holiday looks like. I’m running for my life, now more than ever.
I close my laptop without posting anything new. Things are now officially out of control. Okay, I’ve had enough to eat—a terrible snack, which is now sitting heavy in my stomach—and a Diet Coke. I have to get back to the hotel.
* * *
I’m hiding from the world, from everything I’ve done and from all the angry people back home. Danny has been looking for me the entire afternoon. He must be furious, and Ben as well, rightly so, I think. I don’t know what to do.
The phone rings again. I can’t ignore it any longer. I’ve done what I’ve done, and now it’s time to deal.
“Hello,” I mumble into the phone with a quivering voice.
“Jesus, Talia.” I hear a groan on the other end of the line.
“You’re upset.”
“I don’t know what to do with you anymore. The surprises just keep on coming.” He sounds tired and despondent, because of me. Another reason not to go back.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed.
“What are you sorry about?” he asks. “Your revealing blog, the article in the newspaper, or what you did to Ben? The phone hasn’t stopped ringing and we were forced to disconnect it.”
“What happened to Ben?” I ask in a panic.
“Talia, the guy might have made an error in judgment, but he doesn’t deserve what he’s going through now,” he answers firmly.
“What is he going through?”
“What do you think? You were so explicit in your blog that everyone knows who he is. His phone has been flooded with calls, the journalists won’t leave him alone, and getting to work has become intolerable. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of him.”
“I never meant for this to happen,” I whisper, and the familiar tears start again. “All I wanted to do was to write…”
And then it hits me. Maybe I did want to destroy my life, but I ended up destroying his as well.
“Didn’t he come to work today?” I wipe my tears on my sleeve.
“How could he? Can you imagine what’s been going on in the office? You’re on holiday there in Barcelona, while here, life has been turned upside down.”
“I’m sorry.” My silent tears become loud wails. “What have I done?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Come home, we’ll sit and talk about it all, and we’ll see how to move forward from here,” he says resignedly. Why does he still want me to come back?
“I’m not coming back, certainly not after this. Everyone hates me. I hate me. I’m a monster.” I can’t stop crying.
“No one hates you, we’re just exhausted. This has gone far enough.”
“I’m not coming back. Not now and not ever. I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Talia—” he tries one last time, but I cut him off.
“I don’t want to talk. Bye, Danny.” I turn off my phone, sobbing as I pull up the blanket, holding it tightly to my chest. What have I done to everyone—to Danny, to John, and to Ben, to their friendship and their jobs? I’m sobbing, terrified by the fact that my actions have snowballed and I can’t control what will happen.
* * *
By the time I dare leave the hotel, it’s already evening. Suddenly it hits me, this terrible fear. Anyone in the street could recognize me and know what I’ve done. I walk with my head down, trying to be inconspicuous. I’ve turned everyone’s life upside down. I find a corner in a side alley, sit down on the edge of the pavement, and light up a cigarette.
I’m even afraid to sit in the Plaza Reial. A pathetic and worthless creature, that’s what I am. And I thought he could love me, but after everything I’ve done to him, he must despise me now. I just wanted to love and to be loved. And now this. Everyone hates me and I hate myself. I deserve to die. I deserve to hurt like this, the same way I hurt everyone else.
A horrible need, old and buried for years, rises within me, a need to feel something, a need to feel pain.
I’m not doing this to myself again. It’s forbidden. But the pain and despair are consuming and obliterating, and I just can’t deal with it. In that side alley, on the edge of the street, there’s no one to stop me. I need to get it out of me.
I draw deeply on my cigarette. I want to release the pain. I hold out my wrist, turn the cigarette around in my fingers, and press it down hard. It burns bright red and singes my skin. You deserve it. Let it hurt you. Then I press it down again and again. Silent tears and three, burning sores. All the pain is now focused on my wrist; it has accumulated in one place. At least I feel something. My hand burns so bad…
* * *
On the way back to the hotel, I stop at a small pharmacy. I go in with my head down, take a pair of scissors off the shelf and pay the disinterested saleslady. I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve. When I return to the hotel, I take the elevator to the second floor and close the door behind me. I sit down on the bed with the scissors in my hand. My wrist burns so much. I didn’t think to buy a bandage at the pharmacy and now I’m tortured with pain. I don’t want to be me anymore. I don’t want to be this terrible creature who did all those bad things. But I can’t escape it.
Crying, I get off my bed, go into the bathroom, and look in the mirror. I’m disgusting and ugly, and no one should love me. I lift a lock of curly brown hair and bring it closer to the scissors. Ben used to love my curls. It seems like a lifetime ago. Now he doesn’t like anything about me, and rightly so. I close the scissors on a big chunk of hair and let it fall to the ground. Very good—this way no one will want you. No one will hurt you either. I snip off another curl and then another and cut my hair short, very short. The curls fall all over the white tiles in the tiny bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror, I run a hand through my hair. Short, brown, and uneven tufts peek out at me. Serves you right. No one is interested in you anyway.
I get into the shower and let the hot water wash away the remaining strands of hair and the tears, which never seem to stop.
I sit on the bed in my grey sweatpants and loose-fitting shirt, staring at the wall. My wrists burn. Without my curls, my neck feels strange. Bare. And I’m tired, so tired, of my life, of myself. I just can’t deal with it anymore.
* * *
August 5th 2012
Fatigue
My body is falling, collapsing inwards like a building waiting to be demolished, waiting for the explosives and the fuse to implode in perfect timing into one, big pile of rubble.
Everything hurts, inside and out. Every muscle is opposed to moving, protesting against any attempt to do so. There isn’t one ounce of energy left in me.
All is empty. My heart is in torment and my soul is dead. I am almost a flat line on the monitor, almost there, in a place where there’s no more hurt. I am not scared anymore. I’ve found myself in an abyss before. I no longer wonder how bad it can be. I already know, and it’s all I ever feared and more.
I can quietly sink and allow the yawning darkness to envelop me and save me from myself, from the remnants of what was once my life.
Everything has been sucked from me like a vacuum; I don’t have another breath. I could fight it, but what for? To hurt even more? To get angry? To love?
No, I’m leaving it all behind. I’ve had enough. I get it. I’m not the girl who can be desired. I’m that thing, that despicable creature you only want to hate, to use, to abuse. I’m an empty vessel. But now the empty vessel is full. There is no room for anyone or anything to get in. I’ve closed the lid. Leave me alone. I want to be a line, a shadow on the bed, quickly forgotten, a dull and meaningless memory. There is nothing left of me, only thin lines and burning wounds on my wrist: old and new memories. I’m letting me be. I understand the game and I want out. I am not playing anymore. I forfeit.
Talia
I turn my phone off, lie back, and let the darkness engulf me.