gansey is me and i am gansey

TW for these things: Eating disorders, self harm, sexual assault, stalking, suicide, and verbal and religious abuse :) also sexual content in this if u haven't already guessed 

Chapter One

When I was eighteen, my birthday present for myself was to cut my hair. It wasn't because I was treating myself, or because I wanted to look good for a certain event, or even for myself. I cut my hair, simply because, I was never allowed to before.

My hair that fell past my waist, was chopped that day, for the first time. I watched as the stylist took her shears, and gave me one of the most hideous Cleopatra bobs I had ever seen, and just to add to the irony, I requested that she dyed it all over, the darkest black.

I requested this, specifically to make my parents angry. I was never allowed to cut my hair. I was never allowed to dye it. So why not go both extremes at once?

I remember looking in the mirror at my short hair, and hearing my father's words regurgitated in my memory. "If you ever cut your hair, Gansey, men would never be attracted to you." I was so certain I'd prove him wrong.

That night, after eighteen years of waiting for the moment that I can finally cut my hair, I smiled. I smiled as I ran my hand through my short hair, and the next morning, it was a shock all over again. I stared at myself in the mirror for what felt like forever.

My hair is short, and my life is only going to go up hill from here, I thought to myself. I'm going to be healthy, I'm going to get a boyfriend finally, and I'm definitely going to stop starving myself.

I was wrong, of course. Things really only went downhill from there.

I blink up at the ceiling of my apartment, and think back to my days as a naïve eighteen year old, and I only cringe at her. I never did get that boyfriend I wanted so badly. I was never able to prove my dad wrong, maybe, he was right. No man would ever be attracted to me now.

I pull myself up out of bed, and am reminded by a sharp pain in my arm what happened last night.

I sigh, feeling myself get dizzy from the anticipation. I don't want to look at it, but I know what I'm going to see.

I force myself to look down at my arm, six new bruises greet me like six new unwanted pests. I wince at them, and quickly pull my sleeve down. One of them looks more purple, and splotchy than the others, and I can't stand the sight of it. I have a genuine disgust for anything regarding blood, veins, and a beating heart. Knowing that bruises are just pools of blood underneath your skin makes me actively nauseous.

So why do I do it? Because cuts are so much worse.

I stand up, which is one of the hardest things to do in the morning. My back aches, though I'm only twenty-four, and blood rushes to my head as the room spins. I only ate six hundred calories yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

Though it is a terrible feeling to lose your balance as you stand up, it is also a feeling that I panic if I do not experience. If I'm not dizzy when I first stand, then I know that I ate too much, and that can not happen.

I check the clock, at it reads 3:00 a.m.

This comforts me, the silence of my apartment makes me feel safe.

I walk into my kitchen and immediately begin to brew some coffee. I turn the oven on, and pick out two-hundred grams of frozen but already cooked chicken breast, as I'm too scared of cooking chicken, or any meat for that matter, on my own. My irrational phobia of getting sick from salmonella encourages me to burn chicken, and still be convinced it's contaminated, so instead, I buy chicken that's already precooked.

While the chicken is in the oven, I wash a bowl of spinach, and snack on it raw while I cut up one singular apple. After that, I take one glass of water, drop in half a tablespoon of mineral salt, and mix it.

When the coffee is done, I pour myself a large cup, and I drink it black. I don't like anything in my coffee, that is way to many calories, and I like the taste of the bitterness.

When the chicken is done, I carefully set my bowl of spinach, my plate of chicken, my cut up apple, and my black coffee all on the table, and sit down.

Six hundred calories. This is my only meal, every day. This is what I eat, until I become so dizzy I can no longer work, and I have to eat more. This is my life, every day, every morning.

After I eat, I sit, and listen to music on my couch, until the clock says 5:00. Sometimes I'll read, or pace around my apartment for extra daily steps. Once it is 5:09, that is when I get dressed.

I have the choice of a white button up long-sleeve shirt, or a black one. Today, I choose white. With it, I always wear black jeans. It's cold here in Nashville, so I pick a black jacket, and fix my short hair by simply running my hands through it until it looks nice.

I stare at myself in the mirror, and am relieved that I don't see a woman at all. Just a nobody with no features worth admiring. I am a woman, who acknowledges no femininity not because I don't want to, but because I can't. Anything feminine on me looks ridiculous. I am also a woman, who holds no masculinity. I may dress like a boy, but I don't relate to them. I may be a woman, but to me women are so much better than anything I could ever be. I see women with makeup, and dresses, and a confidence in their curves and beauty, and I'm in awe of them. I love them. I love who they are and how they live.

I am a nothing. My eyes are sunken in, and I run a hand across the left side of my ribcage. I wish that when I touch my body, I'd touch nothing at all. I don't even want to touch myself. I don't like it.

I look like a ghost, and funnily enough, people treat me like one too. I don't mind it anymore. as a kid I used to hate myself for being lonely, for not having any friends. I would try so hard to get someone to like me, and nobody ever did.

Now I'm simply a ghost, and I've learned to cling to that title. I don't want people to see me. I don't want people to know me. I want to go to work, do my job without the world really knowing that I exist, and then I come home and restart the process all over again.

I leave my apartment, an hour and a half earlier than I need to be at work, and begin walking. I don't like driving, even though I own a car, so I walk the eight miles to and from work everyday. It'd take no more than twenty-minutes if I drove. I'm aware it's unreasonable for most people.

To anyone normal, it seems irrational, but to me this irrationality is rational. My mental comfort is something I protect more so than my physical comfort. I do not care if I'm in pain physically so long as my mental state is coddled and warm. I have spent my whole childhood afraid. Mentally tortured by intense fear and brutal self-hatred, and though I may still hate myself, I now understand how to comfort my mind, and if that means walking sixteen miles a day so I do not have to feel what I did when I was younger and had no control of my life then so be it.

The walk to the salon isn't so bad. Being a hairstylist is the only good thing I have going for me right now. Sure, the owner of the salon hates me, and my coworkers don't understand me, but I don't care. If I was eighteen, I would care. If I was eighteen, I would cry myself to sleep wondering why I can't connect with anyone, and why I'm such a fucking freak.

I am twenty-four, and I am a freak, I can't connect with anyone, and I am fine. I am not happy, I am not doing great, and there really isn't anything in my life worth keeping me going but I am fine, and so I will guard this status of 'fine' with my life.

I put my earbuds in, and continue my walk. I'm content with these extra lonely hours in the morning, because I can imagine a better life for myself in my head, where I have a group of friends, and perhaps someone to love me. These simple moments of me daydreaming a life I'll never have are my precious moments. I will never live a full life, so I have to imagine one.

I don't imagine myself rich, I don't imagine myself famous, I just imagine a life where someone, even if it is just one person, wants me. That is my ultimate desire, and the only thing I have given up on.

The long walk doesn't feel long, and I finally make it to the salon with fifteen minutes to spare.

I open the door, mentally building every wall around myself as protection from the people I struggle with the most.

My coworkers.

"Good morning." My boss, Charlotte greets me and I force a small, but not too small, smile.

"Morning." I have to chant to myself to watch my face as I walk towards my station to set up for the day. I have a horrific 'resting bitch face' and it's something that I'm convinced has cursed me my whole life. I'm completely unapproachable, not by choice, but by my face alone.

My lack of personality is just the hidden beast underneath my unwanted cold exterior.

I notice, but don't stare at two of my other coworkers, Paige and Sadie, who are talking to each other at their own stations. I feel them glance at me, and that's enough for me to know that they have acknowledged my presence, but don't bother to greet me. I won't greet them. By me greeting them when they have clearly shown they don't want to greet me would only look like I'm trying to make a point, and I'm not trying to make a point, I'm just trying to do my job and go home.

I quietly set up my station, by meticulously placing each comb upwards, and my shears parallel to the mirror. Every item is precisely an inch apart and perfectly poised and I am satisfied with the look of it all. While I unwind the chord to my curling iron, I listen to Paige and Sadie talk about what they did yesterday. Sadie is talking about her two kids even though she's younger than me and every time I hear her talk about her kids it makes me feel like a kid myself. She is a mother, and I can barely keep myself alive.

Paige talks about her stupid fucking boyfriend (her words), and how she thinks she's pregnant, and she's terrified, even though she always thinks she's pregnant and she never is.

I listen to them talk, and I wonder what I would say if someone asked me what I did yesterday. The only thing I did was call an advertisement for a roommate but nobody picked up.

The idea of a roommate doesn't sound bad to me. I need more money as the prices of things have gone up, and a temporary roommate situation wouldn't be bad for my savings. My lease is almost up, and I don't want to stay in my current place for another year. The thought of doing so is depressing.

The door to the salon opens, and Cecily runs in with a large white coffee with whipped cream. I try not to stare at her, but I can't help it. Her green hair is vibrant and long, and she has more tattoos and piercings than I can count.

She exhales as she plops down at her station, "Made it just in time." She shoots me a grin because our eyes meet, "Good morning, Gansey boy."

I don't know why she calls me Gansey boy, but I like that she acknowledges me enough to give me a nickname, even if I'm not a boy.

There's a lingering voice in my head terrified that she actually thinks I'm a boy, but I squash that down real tight. That's a humiliating revelation that I refuse to consider.

"Morning." My voice doesn't come out as loud as I'd like it too, and I'm immediately drowned out by Sadie saying, "Bitch you texted in the group chat at like four a.m. how are you functioning right now?"

Cecily held up her coffee towards Sadie, "I paid eleven dollars for this shit."

My heart sinks, and I quickly grapple it, and pet it kindly, like a hurt puppy. The group chat. The texting group that all three of them were part of but me. They never asked me to join the chat, even though I was here almost a year before Cecily ever was. They all talk on the group chat, I hear them all the time mentioning it. They also always go out together for drinks and spend time at each other's houses.

I have never been invited along with them, and whilst coddling my wounded pride I won't ask either. Why would I ask to be invited to something nobody wants to invite me to? That's just embarrassing.

At eight, the salon opens, and my first client arrives. Her name is Iris. She's a middle aged woman who never washes her hair, and specifically gets a blowout once a week by me. My clientele is the only thing I've ever done that I'm proud of. I have the luxury of picking and choosing my clients now, because though I'm not good at many things, I've accumulated enough talent for this profession, and only choose the clients who require the most expensive services, such like platinum cards, and other blonde keep-ups.

Blowouts don't give you much money in this industry, but this woman I have attached myself to. She was one of my first clients when I graduated beauty school, and I've grown to care for her. I'm sentimental about the most ridiculous things, and she is perhaps the one thing I cling to.

The best part about her, is that she is cruel, and she is a bitch, and for some reason, I'm the only stylist she allows to touch her hair.

Yes, it makes me feel wanted, as pathetic as that sounds.

She never tips me over three dollars, and I don't really make any money from her at all, but I don't mind. I think her and I have a mutual understanding. We are both more alike than either of us would like to admit.

"Good morning Iris." I greet her with a smile, and she moves past me and sits at my chair. "You look very pretty today." I compliment her casual clothing that looks no more special than something someone would wear staying at home all day.

"And you look like you always do. Same white shirt."

I glance down at my shirt, "It's not really the same. I got hair dye on my last one so I had to buy a new one last week."

She shakes her head, but says nothing more about it. I'm happy she doesn't. I don't like putting emphasis on my appearance especially in front of my coworkers. I put a cape around her, and guide her to the sink where I wash her hair three times, which she won't let me stop until I practically scrub her scalp raw.

When we get back to my station, she stares at me through the mirror while I brush out her hair. "I don't understand why you couldn't have got me in yesterday."

"Yesterday was my day off." I say, gently brushing the knots from her hair because I know the last time her hair was brushed was by me, this time last week.

"Day off? I don't take that much time. It only takes you half an hour to do my hair. You can't come in for half an hour?"

It's unreasonable, but in my head she has a point. Why couldn't I have come in for half an hour yesterday? I had nothing better to do.

"Well, because it was my day off." I try to defend myself, but I've lost my argument, and I can't seem to gain my composure from the fact that she was making sense. Was it laziness as a stylist to not come in even for half an hour? It certainly made me seem selfish.

"My schedule for work is different every week, and I was off yesterday." She continues, "I needed this done yesterday. Now I'm going to be an hour late for work today."

I only get one day a week off, though that is purely out of my own personal choice. I like to keep myself as busy as possible because spending too much time alone with myself is not good for my mental health.

"I'm sorry, Iris." And now I feel stupid. I know my coworkers can hear our exchange, and I can't imagine what they're thinking. Whose side are they on? Mine, or Iris'?

"Gansey only gets one day a week off." I hear Cecily say, and I feel my body grow hot. So I was right, they were listening.

"Again," Iris continues, "It takes half an hour at most to do my hair. Next time, I'll just find another salon."

I try not to, but I can't help it, I glance up at Cecily, and she's shaking her head at Iris, dumbfounded at her audacity.

Cecily is known for having a sharp tongue, and I don't want to lose the only client of mine that I have emotionally connected to, so I quickly add in, "It's not a big deal, I'll come in next time okay?"

Iris just gives a quick nod, like she was over it, and for the rest of her service we are silent.

When I finish, she pays, but doesn't tip me this time, and I accept that. I go back to my station, and prepare for my next client.

My next client is a root-touch up I finish her quickly, and my third client is just a refresh on toner.

I'm working until around two o'clock, where I allow myself to take a quick ten minute break by walking out the back of the salon, where there is a quiet alleyway, that rarely anyone walks through.

My head is spinning from lack of nutrients, but I don't mind it. I know it's not bad enough to where I need to eat more. I couldn't handle that mentally today anyway.

I check my phone and notice someone had called me and left a message.

I tap the voice message and listen to it.

"Hey, this is Maddie lovell, you called yesterday about my ad for a roommate? If you're still interested, I'm free today if you'd like to check out my place. Please give me a call back if you're able. Thanks."

I listen to the voicemail once more just to make sure I heard correctly, and then decide last minute to tap her phone number and call back.

On the second ring, she picks up, "Hello?"

Her tone sounds almost annoyed, and I'm already regretting calling, "Uhh, hi, I'm Gansey, I called about your ad yesterday?"

Her tone quickly lightens, "Oh, right, yeah sorry I didn't pick up yesterday, I was busy all day and didn't have my phone on me. Are you still interested in sharing a place?"

"That's no problem. I'm still interested." I'm not sure if I'm still interested. I feel as though there are red flags I'm missing and I'm just too naïve to see.

"Cool, if you want you can come by today to see it."

"Would around seven be alright?"

"That's no problem. You have the address on the ad. See you then." She hangs up before I can get another word out.

I stare at my phone for a second, unsure of what just happened, and then I quickly remember my next client should arrive soon. I run back to my station to prepare for her. My head is spinning and my body feels cold, and I haven't forgotten about the bruises on my arm, that grow increasingly more uncomfortable the longer the day goes on.