ONE TO WATCH

B

Bibiana Rivas
Nik: B
D.O.B: 07/05/2002
Height: 5 ft 9 in (1.76 m)
Weight: 53kg
Sign of the Zodiac: Taurus
Eye colour: Brown (wears blue contact lenses)
Nationality: Venezuelan
Occupation: Model

February 15, 2024

Bibiana recoiled at the face that stared back at her from the bathroom mirror. Disgusting. Monstrous. Fat. Tears sprung to her eyes. She'd let herself go. Eyeing the toilet bowl she pondered its glossy enamel, so fresh and clean. She balled her right hand into a fist, resisting the urge to draw her fingers to her mouth; they were her weapon against the calories she'd consumed at breakfast, and though she longed for an empty stomach, she'd have to wait. Delyan would be outside her door, listening like the spying psychopath that he was.

Bibiana kneeled at the bowl and watched the seconds clock over on her phone. At precisely 7.10am, she'd rid her body of the sticky mess of carbohydrates and sugar inside of her.

A voice in her head said: "Delyan is a liar. He's lying about your weight. You're not too thin, you're just too fucking greedy. That's your problem. You have no self-control." The voice had been her companion since she was fourteen years old. Ever present. Constantly critical. She stared at her screen, a minute had passed, she stood up and went back to the mirror.

Where is that lightheaded feeling?

Bibiana braced herself to look in the mirror again. She found the mere act of looking to be physically painful. She opened her eyes.

"You've fucked up. You've gone backwards." The voice said. "Undone years of hard work and discipline."

Her reflection in the mirror was all wrong. Repulsive. Nauseating. She tucked her hair behind her ears and picked up a bottle of makeup remover from the vanity. Removing the cap, she tipped its contents onto a cotton swab and began to paw frantically at her eyelids. When her mascara was just a dull grey smear, she washed her face with an apricot scrub, padded it dry and applied cold cream, toner, moisturizer, serum and checked the time again. 7.07am. She stared hard at her bare face in the mirror. It was unbearably round and plain. Glancing at the clock, she set to work redoing her makeup. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead.

The voice continued to dominate her brain: "Calories are swimming through the walls of your stomach and making their way into your bloodstream. There are literally blobs of fat, settling on your hips, your butt, your thighs."

Her own voice interjected: "Stop this. Change your thinking. You know how to do it."

The critical voice changed tack as if it were evading her attempt at rational thought: "Delyan. He pities you. You are so ugly. Can you blame him? You stuffed your face like a fat pig. You have no self-control. He likes Charlie. Do you think she'd have bacon for breakfast?"

Bibiana glanced at her screen. 7.09am. She couldn't wait any longer. She fell to the floor on her knees, her cheeks streamed with tears and clinging to the toilet seat retched her guts out. When there was nothing more to spew, she lay her head on the cool tiles, feeling elated.

Not a minute had gone by when the voice returned louder, more direct: "Get up! What are you doing lying down? You are so undisciplined. No wonder Carmen got that Paris job and not you. You are so fat. It's time for your punishment. Eight miles. You know the drill. If you can do that, Delyan will forgive you. Get up! Go! Now."

Bibiana forced her exhausted body off the floor and began to perform a set of one hundred jumps to warm up. After which he moved into her bedroom and hurriedly changed into sweats and joggers. She grabbed her keys from her bedside table, hooked her phone to her arm and placed her wireless earbuds into her ears. Quietly she closed her bedroom door behind her and headed out. She had no need to consult a map. The route was familiar to her. Eight miles in an hour was the goal. If she could do that. She'd be okay. As her feet pounded the pavement, she leaned into thinking about the horror of bacon and eggs chugging through her veins, settling on her hips, invading her thigh gap. This always worked to spur her on. She'd set her Spotify to play the Danse Macbre in GMinor and used the pace of the orchestral music to run to. It felt good to be taking control. If she could just keep this up, she'd get back to her old self in no time. With fondness, she recalled the day she'd been diagnosed DSM5 anorexic at age sixteen. It had felt like graduation day. How long ago that had been. How far away it seemed now. She was way too fat for that diagnoses now. She'd have to punish herself daily to get back there. She visualized herself as a helium balloon, so light it'd be swept up by the wind. She started to feel the elements, the wind in her eyes, the sun on her face. Soon, she was speeding along the pavement, feet pounding, heart pumping, sweat pouring. And just as her peace settled in, she began to dream of food. Tonight, I will have avocado. Just a small half mushed up with mayonnaise on a slice of white toast. I will have a biscuit too. If the girls eat chocolate. I will have whatever they eat and no more. And then when we watch a movie, I'll have some popcorn. It would be weird not to if everyone else is eating it.