Mirror Mirror Can't You See, What You Show Is Killing Me

Mia [Chapter 5]

So tempting. No one's home, Amaya left, they would never have to know. . . No! I cannot, I do not want to be fat. I do not want those  brownies. 

Yes, I do.

No! Stop! No brownies. Apparently my stomach isn't listening though, as my hands reach for a brownie without my permission. My hand falters, and I think for a second that I can resist, before my fingers are wrapping that gooey chocolatey square of goodness. 

No! Not goodness! Fat, calories!

But the brownie finds it's way into my suspiciously open mouth, and before I can stop, I'm eating another brownie, and another. My hunger satisfied, the thought of what I've done hits me like a Saturday morning hangover. 

I immediately rush to the nearest bathroom, the voices of my tormentors echoing throughout my weak willed mind. 

How could you?!?! 

I didn't mean to!

It's okay, you'll be fine, just do what you have to

I listen to my imaginary Mia; bulimia.

 I fill a glass with warm water and drain it, filling the cup again and drinking until I can't anymore. I stick two fingers down my throat, pushing them down until most of the water and some of the brownies come up. I plunge my fingers down again, and more of my failure comes up. 

Tears mix with the contents of my stomach, salty droplets tinged with mascara. I try one more time, but my stomach is empty, how it should be. How it should have been. I cannot tell Amaya about this, she'll punish me.

I feel guilty for failing Ana though, so I punish myself. I slip my razor out of it's hiding place in my dresser drawer and think for a moment. There are 132 calories in a brownie. I stroke my skin with the razor 132 times, mopping the blood off my wrists and legs before it can stain the carpet. The last thing I need is to have to explain a mysterious puddle of blood in my room. 

I'm quickly running out of paper towels, so I grab the first thing I see, a paintbrush. I try to wipe away some of the blood with that too, and soak the paintbrush as well. I flick it off onto a canvas beside me, not really thinking. 

I go to clean up more blood, but the canvas catches my eye. Swirls of red, flecks of crimson materialize in my mind. Scarlet blood becomes my paint as I swish the brush across the canvas, eyes widening at the results. 

Deep circles, slashing lines. Blood shot droplets wounded soldiers. My skin the battlefield, my weight the war. Food sending enemy spies dressed as enticing chocolate, saying one brownie won't hurt. But it does, it becomes fat I must punish myself for. More paint exploded from my dripping brush.

 It resembles carnage, a strange hint of beauty in it. A fight not won, but survived. Winning is only when the war is over. 

My war is not over until I am skinny.