I stand glaring critically at myself in the mirror. Lank dull hair of no distinguishable colour hangs in sweaty, greased dreadlocks either side of my hollow cheeks and thin, cracked lips. My eyes, which absorb the foul, degenerate image in the mottled glass, are dead; cold grey and dead.  How had they used to look? Were they even the same colour? For the life of me I can’t remember. For the life of me; what a sick fucking joke. As my dead eyes work their way down they look at a body that would barely look alive in a cemetery. My shoulders jut out under my lollipop head and I can almost see the exhausted ligaments and tendons that struggle to hold my bone arms to my skinny frame. There’s barely any flesh on my abused ribs; my once ample and admirable breasts are shrivelled and saggy. That was crucifyingly obvious as I look at them braless beneath a skimpy, filthy tank top. No woman wants a muffin top, but I have nothing; just bone, practically bare bone, on show between the rancid top and skanky velour track pants. Where there should be a cute little curve of a belly there is just a solid little malnourished pot belly plonked in the hollow of my abdomen.

Hollow.

That’s what I am, hollow. You throw up and shit for nearly two weeks straight and tell me you feel anything other than hollow. But, truth be told, going cold turkey isn’t what gave me this vacant, uninhabited feeling. No, that feeling of hollow self loathing, disgust and waste started three years ago.

I was sixteen, beautiful, top of the class, popular and happy. There was a party. Don’t ask me why, I don’t remember, but of course I went. I was the star of the show as always; everyone loved me. I can remember exactly what I was wearing. I’d bought a new outfit for the occasion. I had a black, sparkling halter top on with a short, and I mean uterus flashing short, blue denim skirt and heavy, hideous, black platform boots. Fucking stupid bitch. What the hell did I think I looked like? Why did my parents let me out looking like such a slut? But I guess I can’t blame them; I was always such a headstrong, arrogant fuckwit.

Of course there was booze at the party; plenty of it. We play games; loser drinks. We mixed spirits, we lit a joint, and we thought we were the dog’s fucking bollocks. At midnight it got heavy. Some guys decided to crash. They were older, much older; but hey, we were cool, we were shitfaced and we could handle anything! The music got louder; me and the girls were flirting with these guys. They were fun. One guy, big and bulky with short hair and a leather jacket, asked me to dance for him. So me, fucking show off, does. All the while he’s filling my plastic cup that keeps moving to my mouth and pouring foul liquid down my throat.

Five songs later I feel it. The alcohol, burning, boiling and searing, began to resurface. I ran. Or at least I tried. I was fucked. My stupid bastard boots stopped me reaching the bathroom. I just about managed to contain the vile cocktail of alcopops and whatever the hell that guy was giving me until I crawled to the back door and emptied my churning stomach on to the patio. 

Eventually I heaved myself into a shitty stinking heap in a corner behind a huge plant pot. The air sobered me up. Fuck. There was puke all over me. In my hair, on my clothes, up my nose. I must have looked fucking terrible.

“Hey darlin’, you wanna smoke?”

The guy in the leather jacket was leering down at me. He was leaning against the doorframe, the light behind him; I couldn’t tell you what his face looked like. That’s one of the reasons the police wouldn’t do anything. That and they probably thought I was a little slut who was asking for it. Maybe I was. He came down the steps; I hadn’t noticed the steps when I came out. I looked at myself closer; I was covered in blood from grazes on my elbows and knees. Jesus I must’ve looked like such a kid. Maybe that’s what he liked so much. Sick fucker.

“Move over sugar, make some room for your new pal.”

“Fuck off” I mumbled.

I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to sober up enough to sneak away. I was covered in puke, blood and Christ knows what else. I felt humiliated. Maybe it was that that got him hard.

“What did you say bitch?” He peered forward in the dark and cocked his head to one side pretending he couldn’t hear properly. Cocky shit.

“I said fuck off!” I yelled at him and spat in his face.

One of his huge hands grabbed my hair and pulled my head back; his way of making sure the other hand didn’t miss. My face cracked and ground under the back of his paw and before I could react, recover or move I was face down in the gravel.  

“You fuckin’ whore, I’ll show you what that attitude gets you!”

His rank, fag ash breath was right beside my ear, the whole of his bulk pressing down on me, holding me still. I could feel one hand on the back of my head. I couldn’t fucking breathe. I didn’t know what he was doing. He was shifting around, the other hand was doing something else. The terror hit me harder in the face than his hand had as I felt his thick fingers roughly hitch my skirt up over my hips and rip off my Tweety Pie knickers. I tried to scream; he shoved my face further into the razor sharp gravel. I tried to fight my way free; he laid into me, punches landing all over. Then agony. Sheer fucking agony. Nothing else mattered. There was nothing I could do; the pain was blinding. I could hear his breathing change; it was fast, shallow. Grunts and sweat and agony as he fucked me up the arse. He eventually came, the fucker held off, I didn’t know it then, but know I recognise the desperation in the tone of the whines, snorts and groans when I relive it every night. His cum mixed with my blood and shit and burned like fuck.

I was limp, as good as dead as he wiped himself off on my torn knickers. Bastard. Then nothing. I was hollow. I hardly felt it when they found me, when they cleaned me up at the hospital, when my parents came and yelled. Nothing touched me. The police did fuck all. I told it over and over. They all forced me to relive it every fucking day. That was the only thing that got close to filling me.

Then there was oblivion. Heroin, crack, alcohol induced oblivion.  I stole for it. I sucked the cocks of countless men for it. I beat the shit out of some kid for it. I had abortions to keep the oblivion. I did everything, anything for my oblivion. I clung to it. It couldn’t fill me; but it covered me, it hid me, it was safe.

Then my fucking parents found me. Bastards. They thought I needed saving. They wouldn’t let me have my oblivion. They were downstairs. They sat there whilst I threw up, shat myself and sweated through fever after fucking fever.

I look at myself, hollow, in the mirror. Only my blood fills me. But not for long. It’s filling the carpet; spreading out from the tip of the blade. Spreading to oblivion; beautiful, hollow oblivion.