Lorraine
I've tried many diets. Ranging from only eating on days of the week beginning with T, to eating only foods of a certain color, or beginning with a certain letter of the alphabet. And yet, it was never enough, my stomach still protruded too much, my thighs clashed with the mini dress, my back was always just a little too wide.
Even the 'loose hanging' size 2 clothes on my frame did nothing to validate me. Eventually, I discovered a diet that works for me. It was great at first. I could eat as much as I wanted and what I wanted.
That cookie you ate with that irresistible charm? Well those calories could be controlled. Your weight could be controlled.
The name of my diet?
Bulimia.
My while life has been about control. My hobby? Telling people what to do.
Everything in life is a competition, and not one where we all emerge as winners, with cheesy medals saying, "Good effort, " or " Better luck Next Time"
No, our stupid messed up life isn't like that at all. Only fools, people with a view so rosy that candy floss pales in comparison, say otherwise.
I'm very much alone now, the woods around me empty. Just like the people. Just like me. The river is my only friend, snaking it's path through the woods, as if trying to hide, amongst the trees, when really it's presence is so blatant that it's petty attempts to ease by unnoticed make me want to scream.
I can't look at the water, so shiny and magical and alluring without think about. Her.
Atlanta.
Her name, even her stupid, goddamn name is as overbearing as her presence.
Atlanta- the one who talks to you only if there's no one else.
Atlanta- the girl, who, no matter what, needs applause.
Atlanta- the fucking liar, the bitch, who, when kissing your boyfriend and seeing you there doesn't even stop.
Brandon and her.
Her and Brandon.
Brandon, Brandon , Brandon.
Stupid, really, to think that somebody could love me. Me, when I've got no curves, nor witty jokes, nor smiles that captivate. And her, when she has everything.
And then I'm asking myself, why?
Why after five months of dating, it took only a day for it all to be undone by a single girl?
Because she's sparkle, while you are dull Lorraine. She's the one who has it come all easy, the A league girl. Because Lorraine, because she is small and tiny and you're tall and have the curves of a twelve year old boy.
I want to tell myself to stop.
To get this all out of my head.
It's not true, some weak remain of my confidence whispers. A kitten mewling pitifully to a lion. This isn't my fault, the kitten says.
But the lion is stronger.
Yes it is. If only you had spent more time with your boyfriend. If only you had smothered him in love and affection. If only you had given him what he wanted. If you had been prettier, smarter, quirkier, he would still be her.
You let yourself go at camp. You loosened the grip on control, and this is what happened. You shouldn't have let yourself go.
And this voice, it's talking in my head, it's going on and on and I don't even listen but that just makes it worse. As if not hearing it, not hearing the words it said, made me a liar. The kitten is long dead.
I scumb to the lion.
"Please don't, " I say aloud, though there's no one her, but the trees, tall, firm, condescending. And just like all the other times, my body isn't my own, it belongs to this thing, this creature inside my mind.
And the creature can do what it pleases.
And I'm crying no, my fingers slip down my throat, and I feel my body protesting. I feel the muscles in my throat tightening, my stomach heaving.
Please, please please.
Don't. Please. Just stop.
I don't stop, that's the thing. I don't stop as the tears stream down my face, as inconspicuous as the river. I don't stop until I feel the bile rise, and then it's all out.
There isn't much light, just the moon, and it's reflection on the river.
I see pine needles, afloat this puddle of vomit and I feel like that moon. It's like my reflection has bounced off so many surfaces that I'm not even real anymore. This isn't real anymore.
I remember reading, somewhere, how if you spend too much time looking at your reflection, your soul disappears and I remember thinking how stupid that was.
It's true now, and it was true then. Maybe, I stared at mirrors for so long that I became just a reflection.
Just a stupid reflection.
And for my vanity, I lost my soul, and this monster, this terrible creature took it's place inside.
I have stopped crying. My dry eyes, unblinking, stare at the puddle, my body doubled over it, hair swept back. There is no place here for the vain.
The lassitude captures me fully, and all I can think of is sleep. Sleep erases everything. Sleep erases your sins. I lie down, right where I am, my sorrow a sad reeking puddle a meter away from me.
I don't know how long I stare, my gaze glues upwards. I stare until I fall asleep.
YOU ARE READING
Turmoil
Teen Fiction""And you see, maybe people, maybe we're like those cars. We meet others, we crash, some crashes more powerful than others, we change. Impact. It means the death of something, doesn't it?" Tim : (adjective), a writer who's feelings are pressed into...
