(victim’s pov, extreme anorexia, selfharm, occasional murder, forced to wear burqa, beating, explosives & explosion)

hey guys! it’s my first post ever here, and my first story of such sort. i’m not a native speaker, and though my english is supposed to be fluent, i may commit mistakes, pls dont jusdge :) hope you enjoy it!

No Longer A Person: Shahid Girl
Pt. 1

My name is Vlasta.

I’m 18 years old, and I’ve been trying to find a way to reach death for a very long time. The problem is, I don’t want ANY death. I need something special.

Car crashes, natural catastrophes, factory incidents — nothing interesting about them. There is no point, no meaning to such death. One second and you’re dead, and what’s worse — you don’t even have time to realize you’re dying. No time to savour the pain, no time to enjoy the control over your end — you are helpless; only God knows if you will die or not.

What about having a fatal sickness? Not even worth talking — it’s not Middle Ages anymore, and you have all the chances to die in comfort, surrounnded by your relatives in a chilly hospital room.

Suicide? That’s where it gets slightly more interesting, but not really enough to actually attempt it. So what if you choose to die? All the easy ways happen too fast (jumping under the train takes miliseconds to kill you, hanging takes maybe around 7 minutes if you’re lucky enough) and more sophisticated ways are harder to implement in life: self-torture requires money and specific knowledge. Finally, suicides are very intimate. It’s just you and no one else. There’s no significance to such act, no importance. No one sees you dying, and it changes nothing. Wasteful.

Being murdered by someone? Not much different from suicide — another useless way to perish. Another intimate act of satisfying one’s needs, this time someone else’s. It’s just you and some sick or drunk man’s fantasies. There is no empowerment to it, no higher purpose. And there is even a chance that no one will ever know that you’re dead — so how is it fun?

That’s what I’ve been thinking about for past 2 years while studying in the International Female-only Boarding School, having been sent here by my parents.
Obviously, there are only girls here. From different parts of he world. All have rich, kind and loving parents — it almost seems like I’m the only one that wasn’t lucky enough to be born into a happy family. That doesn’t matter, though. What I’ve viewed as a curse in the beginning I soon started to appreciate as a blessing.
My dad used to beat me viciously with cutlery. When I was little, he only smacked my mouth, but as the time went, he started using all of our kitchen utensils on me: frying pans, bigger pots, smaller pots, ladles, bowls… All leaving deep shades of rotten eggs, deathly mold and rotten blood colouring my skin. I always cried and screamed, tears, spit and snot running down my face. I was a pig in a slaughterhouse — beaten before murder so as my meat tastes better when it’s cooked. I still remember the sensation that washed over my body after every hit: the numbing pain, fireworks going off in my veins.
My mom is a supermodel. She never eats. Neither do I. I learned the hard way that there is no beauty without pain, and as the years went by I realized how truthful this phrase is: it’s not even about trying and working hard; no, it’s only ever about real, physical pain. There is beauty to it — this is the only way to find it withing life and yourself.
So, yeah, I never eat. My height is around 170 cm but I only weigh 32 kilos: you can count all of my ribcage bones, you can trase a line along each single one of my spine’s vertebra. My hips are bony arcs, and men online that pay me for my pictures say that my arms are like tree branches. I am not thin; I am skeletal. My father tried his best to make a meaty meal out of me to feast on, but I outsmarted him — I forced my body to eat itself, I forced it to get rif of any meat ot fat that a human can possible have. The best thing about starving yourself is how weak you get: your body is so fragile that every step feels like an eternity, you’re constantly in and out of conciousness, and it’s like there is a swarm of butterflies in your brain that tickles you from inside out. The nicest thing is how skinny my legs are: at this point, it’s just two sticks barely standing on the ground. Even the smallest clothes size is too big for me.
No beauty without pain. My father thought he is the one to control me, but I gained power over my body through suffering; he can beat me all he wants, but it is I who enjoys it, it is I who squirms when I know he’s about to punish me, it is I to masturbate after every violent beating while also hitting myself with a pan. I like to inflict pain on myself. My body is scattered with white and purple scars; I like to trace them with my fingers, feeling how rough and uneven skin is. My perky little tits, ass, neck and collarbones are mostly safe, but almost every other centimeter of me is violated by the blades, there is almost no safe skin left, and I almost look like a tiger or a zebra.

I started cutting myself since my parents sent me to the boarding school — it happened when mom saw how skinny I am. She cried all night, and not even a week later here I was.
Soon I realized that I missed the pain that my parents had been causing me. I missed how hard my father hit me; I miss looking at my mom’s tiny waist and feeling my chest filling with self-hatred and disgust. It got so bad that I couldn’t stop thinking about harming myself in some way. I started to enjoy thinking about dying and death itself; I craved the feeling of dying so badly that it almost made me physically thirsty. I needed to feel pain like I needed to breath or drink water; thankfully, I took a few razorblades from home with me. So I cut myself every single day.
Every evening I would leave my dorm room and proceed to one of the bathrooms that no one ever used — they say it has been closed for repairment for almost 9 years now, and many girls just used it as a smoking room. I would use it to close myself in one of the cabins and violently cut my skin — my favorite spot is the thighs for some reason. I would make 7-10 cuts before I would eventually tire myself out: after all, I almost never ate anything, too, so doing anything at all was a huge job for me. My cuts are always wide and deep so I can feel the most pain. It hurts so much that I have to bite through the skin of my lips so as to control my screams. I always start to shake uncontrollably because of how much pain I am in, and it feels like the cuts on my body are on fire. Then I would sit on the toilet for 20 minutes, watching the blood trickle down my legs and drop on the floor; I like to feel the pain slowly fade away in one big mass of aching sensation. The only sad part about all is that I have to was the blood away and hide it under my clothes; sometimes I wish I could just walk around naked, with my wounds and my horrible body condition exposed to the whole world.

…Let’s get back to the reality, though.

Right now I am in a morning class, and it’s all just so simply boring. All the girls around me are chatting about unfinished homework, boys, internships and future jobs. Deep down I know that what they’re really talking about is how scary it is to age and take responsibility, how hard it is to really get to know people, how impossible to do it seems to find your path in life; all this existential crisis hidden behind pointless, bland chit-chatting.
My mind wanders back to death again. No one ever here says it out loud, yet I bet everyone thinks about it.
The sweet release of death. To be waiting to die. That’s where real life starts, not this made-up by humans bullshit. Only in death one can taste life — how insatiable you get when you know you’re going to dissappear forever, how hungry you get for earth, air, sunlight and the skies. This is raw life. This is what life really should be all about. Life should be about life.

Oh, God. I crave death so much.

I am so deep in my fantasies of both freedom and imprisonment of death that I feel myself getting wet; something disturbing yet alive longs for pain.
I am about to excuse myself from the class and leave to inflict a few more scars on myself when a loud bang stuns everyone.

A dark-haired bearded man in a military uniform barges into the classroom; before anyone even has time to say anything, he releases a flurry of gunshots into the ceiling. Girls scream, get up and start to cry and hide their faces behind their little plams. Our teacher tries to protect us — she rushes to the man and tries to disarm him somehow, pleading to stop shooting. Immediately, a gun bullet flies through her head. She stands right before me when she runs up to the shooter, so her fresh bloos, smelling of iron and flesh, paints all over my face. I don’t even realize it yet but I scream, too: I forget that I exist. I can’t feel my body: my legs, my arms, my head; it moves on its own, while I back away frantically, fall off my chair. Tears are already streaming down my face. I become one with the mass of youthful, screaming, terrified girls — a huge mass of mascara running down our faces, our lipstick getting smudged all over our clothes, us constantly tripping over the floor in our heels.

My mind doesn’t think. My brain does not have consciousness anymore. I lose myself among a crowd of my female classmates that are pushed out of the room by the man in the mask. He growls at us, he keeps saying something and keeps pointing with a rifle at the corpse of our teacher — I can’t comprehend a word; it’s not like he speaks poorly or with an accent, no. It’s just that the words do not make sense. I am deafened by being depersonalized after being turned into a victim of, what we soon came to realize, is a terrorist attack.

End of Pt. 1