Dysmorphia

(CONTENT WARNING FOR READERS: themes of death, mental health, negative body image, bullying, self-harm, and suicide)

It was a Tuesday morning when she saw them in her bedroom mirror.

Legions bulged above the waistband of her school skirt like monstrous tumors.

They writhed below the surface of her skin, growing darker the closer they rose to the surface of her epidermis. Darker and darker, like the inky blackness that existed in the nothing between stars.

A trembling finger rose to touch one of them. One of the larger ones that sagged over the elastic band. They writhed beneath her touch, churning and contorting. The feel of it was cold–cold like the icy touch of death. Yet, oily.

Where her finger pressed against it, a gaping hole suddenly emerged and sharp, needlelike teeth opened and snapped at her foreign touch. She yipped, jolting away.

She rubbed her fingers together, expecting to see the greasy residue she could feel on her skin, even though nothing was there.

She caught her reflection again in the mirror, saw the black masses rolling around her waist, lurching to and from the surface.

They were grotesque, and she hated them. Hated whatever these alien things were leaching onto her. Hated the feel of them beneath her skin. But more than anything, she hated that they spoke to her.

"Look at her—"

They said, each one mimicking the other like a discombobulated choir that grew louder and louder. They had seen her looking at them–looking at her.

      "Look at HER—

           "LOOK AT HER."

Hot tears dribbled down her cheeks as their hissing laughter mocked her.

A knock at the door, and she stabbed at the moisture on her cheeks with the edge of her oversized sweater, pulling it down tightly over her stomach lest her mother see them.

"Tristan, honey, come get breakfast before you leave," her mother pleaded cautiously, voice laced with concern. Tristan knew she'd been tip-toeing around her moods these past months. "You need to eat. You're a growing girl."

"Growing girl—

     GROWING girl—

          GROWING GIRL."

Her heart was racing, worried that her mother might have overheard them. She gruffly sidled past the woman's figure blocking the doorway with only a quick and quiet squeak of, "Not hungry."

They cackled at her reply beneath her sweater, the wool doing nothing to conceal their voices. She could see them dancing beneath her clothes, as if her growing displeasure brought them the most joy.

"Wait!" her mother protested, snagging on the edge of her sweater.

She swiveled to snap at her mother, to tug back against her grip, anything in a desperate attempt to hide–

But, it wasn't her mom holding onto her sleeve. It was her best friend.

She was at school. At her desk.

The math teacher was at the front of the room, back turned, his monotonous voice droning on and on as students sat in neat rows around her.

A waving hand in her face snapped Tristan back to attention. Her friend had one dark brow arched in anticipation.