ONE TO WATCH

BIBIANA: LIGHTHEADED

Name: Bibiana Rivas

D.O.B: 07/05/2002

Height: 5 ft 9 in (1.76 m)

Weight: 48kg

Sign of the Zodiac: Taurus

Eye colour: Green - brown

Nationality: Venezuelan

Occupation: Model

The week before fashion week.

Bibiana recoiled at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Disgusting. Monstrous. Fat. Tears welled up in her eyes. She'd let herself go. She eyed the toilet bowl, its glossy enamel so fresh and clean. Clenching her right hand into a fist, she resisted the urge to bring her fingers to her mouth. They were her weapon against the calories from breakfast, but she had to wait. Delyan would be outside her door, listening like the spying psychopath he was.

Bibiana knelt by the bowl, watching the seconds tick by on her phone. At 7:10 am, she would purge the sticky mess of carbohydrates and sugar from her body. A voice crept into her semi-conscious: "Delyan is a liar. You're not thin. You're too greedy. You have no self-control." This voice had been her companion since she was thirteen, always there, always critical. She stared at her screen; a minute had passed. She stood and looked back at the mirror.

Where is that lightheaded feeling?

Bibiana braced herself to look in the mirror again. Today, even the act of looking felt physically painful. She opened her eyes.

"You've messed up. You've gone backwards," the voice said. "Undone years of hard work and discipline."

The reflection staring back at her 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 poured its contents onto a cotton swab and began to frantically wipe at her eyelids. When her mascara was a dull grey smear, she rinsed her face and squeezed a blob of apricot scrub into her hands, scrubbing her skin raw. Rinsing her cheeks, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply, relieved to be free from the burden of her reflection. Then she patted her skin dry and applied cold cream, toner, moisturizer, and serum. She checked the time again: 7:07 am. Forcing her eyes open, she stared hard at her bare face in the mirror. It was unbearably plain. Glancing at the clock, she set to work redoing her makeup. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead.

The voice floated through her thoughts, seemingly without a master. "Calories are swimming through the walls of your stomach," it said. "There are literally blobs of fat settling on your hips, your butt, your thighs."

She felt anger rising within her and interjected with her own voice: "Stop this! Change your thinking. You know how to do it."

The critical voice changed tack, evading rationality: "Delyan," it said mockingly. "He pities you. You are so ugly. Can you blame him? You stuffed your face like a fat pig. Do you think someone like Charlie would have bacon for breakfast?"

Bibiana glanced at her screen. 7:09 am. She couldn't wait another second. Falling to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, she clung to the toilet seat and retched until there was nothing left. She lay her head on the cool tiles, feeling a fleeting sense of elation.

But the voice returned almost immediately. "Get up! You're so undisciplined. No wonder Carmen got that Paris job and not you. You're 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 a set of one hundred star jumps to warm up. Then she hurriedly moved into her bedroom to change into sweats and joggers. She grabbed her keys from the bedside table, hooked her phone to her arm, and placed her Bose wireless earbuds in her ears. Quietly closing her bedroom door behind her, she headed out without needing to consult a map—the route was familiar. Eight miles in an hour was the goal. If she could do that, she'd be okay.

As her feet pounded the pavement, she focused on the horror of bacon and eggs invading her thigh gap, which always spurred her on. She set her Spotify to play Danse Macabre in G Minor, using the chaotic pace of the orchestral music to drive her forward. It felt good to be taking control again. If she could keep this up, she'd get back to her old self in no time.

She fondly recalled the day she was diagnosed with DSM-5 anorexia at sixteen—it had felt like graduation day. How long ago that was, how far away it seemed now. She was too fat for that diagnosis today; she'd have to punish herself daily to get back there. She visualized herself as a helium balloon, so light it would 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.

Just as peace settled in, she began to dream of food. Tonight, I will have avocado—just 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 half of whatever they eat and no more...