DRAG ME THROUGH HELL

FIRST SIN.

Chapter Two

FIRST SIN

Two years back, I was just a very horny and ugly fifteen year old kid, until the day I took the first bite of mother earth’s favorite apple. It had rained that afternoon, the kind of thin, sad drizzle that felt like God was tired of crying, but hadn’t stopped completely. The roads glistened like open sores, and I walked in it, soaked, not bothering to cover myself. My uniform clung to my body like regret, every step a squelch of misery, and my backpack swung behind me like a silent executioner’s axe.

Everyone had laughed again.

Not just the boys this time….. the girls too. Sarah had whispered “Piggy” to Lillian, and they had both burst out laughing, not knowing i had been standing just behind them in the hallway, holding my books close to my chest like a weak shield. A boy had asked me if I’d tried exfoliating with acid. Another asked if I was pregnant in the chest and starving from the waist down.

It was always like that. Little moments, small cuts that added up. The names, the whispers, the glances that sliced straight through me. And no one ever said anything. Not the teachers. Not the girls who sat beside me in class. Not even the ones who used to be my friends before middle school ruined everything.

I didn’t cry, not right away……I had thought by now I should have gotten used to it, but I just stood there, frozen, heart thudding so loud I was so sure everyone could hear it echo off the lockers. My hands tightened around my books until the edges dug into my skin. I wanted to disappear, vanish into the floor tiles, dissolve into the smell of bleach and teenage sweat.

I hadn’t cried until I was alone.

Even home just felt like just a door, a door to more judgement. I pushed open with trembling hands. The house smelled of bleach and menthol rub….. my mother’s scent, that holy ghost smell that clung to everything like judgment. No one was home yet. My mother would probably be at church, no doubt praying for a daughter she could never quite understand.

Sometimes I wondered what it might feel like to have a home that didn’t make me hate being born. A home where love didn’t feel like a transaction. Where I didn’t have to earn my mother’s softness with perfect behavior and church attendance.

It was so lonely being the kind of girl no one prayed for, just prayed about.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, dropped my bag by the dresser, peeled off my wet uniform, and stood in front of the mirror…..naked.

And I glared.

The pimples had multiplied. Angry, swollen welts dotting my cheeks and jaw like punishment…..but for what? Is this God punishing me for fantasizing about all those boys?.....The concealer had failed again, caking under my eyes, sliding off my chin, exposing the battlefield on my face. My breasts hung heavy, too big for my frame, always making me hunch forward, and my stomach? It sagged like a huge saggy boob above my narrow legs like a cruel joke. My knees never looked like they belong to me…..I had always looked like two mismatched people forced into one skin.

I hated my reflection….Hated it so much it started to feel like a punishment I had to look at everyday.

I touched my face, then my chest…..then lower….I kept looking at myself, my hate urging me on….. daring me not to flinch this time, and I didn’t.

My fingers moved slowly at first, hesitantly. But something shifted in me Something warm. Something that felt like it didn’t care how wide my face was, or how odd my proportions were, how oily or red or cracked my skin looked.

I felt freedom, in it’s truest form….

For the first time in weeks, my body didn’t feel like an enemy. My body… responded.

I gasped.

I bit my lip.

And I didn’t look away.

It wasn’t love, not yet. But it was the closest thing to power I had ever tasted. My fingers….my rules, my pleasure….No one mocking me, no one whispering about me in a hallway or pointing as I walked past the cafeteria table with my tray of untouched food.

In that moment I was alone, in the quiet privacy of my room, I was in control. Not my mother’s scripture-soaked judgment or the impossible weight of trying to be good enough. Just me, and this secret thing that made my body feel like it belonged to me for once.

It felt like taking back something…..like finding a secret weapon no one could take from me.

Every inch of skin I touched was mine. It pulsed with something electric, something alive. It wasn’t about shame, not right then….it was about reclaiming something they had tried to take from me…… it was about reclaiming my sanity.

I closed my eyes and let go, and for those few stolen seconds, I didn’t feel broken or disgusting or invisible. I felt Wanted……even if only by my own trembling hands.

I came hard, quietly, biting my wrist, staring at my reflection until it blurred from the tears. The release so intoxicating I almost toppled over.

And when it was all over, I stood still….. chest rising, sweat forming again above my lip.

The mirror had seen everything….. It didn’t judge.

Neither did my fingers.

I smiled, a broken…..almost violent kind of smile.

“At least this feels good.” I murmured to myself.

And as I sat on my bed. Damp…..shaking….my breath heavy, I knew I had just found some part of myself….

And it was through my first sin.

Outside, the rain finally stopped.

I felt alive.

But deep down, most part of me still knew the truth, deep in my chest….. something darker than shame, heavier than guilt.

Then I heard the voice….it sounded like cracked glass….

And it whispered……

“No one else will ever want to touch you like that.”

And that… that was the part that still hurt like hell!!