A/N: Hello everyone reading this, I just want to warn you that this may contain some content that you may find disturbing, but there isnt too much graphic details. This idea came to me when I was in class and we were talking about eating disorders. So this is my attempt at writing a story where the girl is anorexic and a self harmer. Let me know if I made any mistakes, -Luci
Part one:
The girl sighed, looking into the mirror.. It confused her greatly, this problem she had. The numbers on the glossy black scale continued to slowly but surly go down. However the girl in the mirror never changed. She never shrunk. Her awful yellowish hair was always wavy and constantly frizzy. Her eyes are an awful shade of brown. Her face had acne and her skin was blotchy. She certainly wasn’t pretty. Nor was she skinny. The girl in the mirror was absolutely repulsive. The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she clutched at her prominent bones that jutted gruesomely out from her pasty skin. The girl in the mirror couldn’t see her bones, they were surrounded by thick and ugly layers of fat. The girl on the scale clutched the tiny amount of excess skin on her stomach, and finally the tears burst from her eyes. The girl on the scale was sickly skinny, but the girl in the mirror was huge. The girl on the scale stepped off the scale, sliding down the cool white wall of her bathroom. She placed a hand to her mouth, watching the floor length mirror in front of her. The girl inside the mirror mimicked her actions. The scale sometimes made the girl on the floor happy. Or maybe it wasn’t happiness so much as it was a sense of pride. But the fat girl in the mirror always ruined that, always made her cry. The girl would never be skinny. Never be pretty. She would never be anything with worth. The girl in the mirror always agreed, and although the girl in the mirror was her worst enemy, it was also her best friend. The only thing that would ever be completely honest was the girl trapped in the mirror. The only one honest about how she looked. Which was always horrible, fat and ugly. The girl on the floor looked away from the mirror, and instead turned towards her cruel way of fixing things. But it fixed nothing, it simply made her feel better for a short while. The girl on the floor reached over to where she had hidden her razor and looked back at the fat girl in the mirror. She grimaced before destroying the girl in the mirror. She took the razor to her pale, breakable skin and she sliced. It took a moment before blood boiled to the surface, crimson lines following her blade. Slowly, the thick liquid oozed down her arm and she was satisfied with the beautifully horrific picture that she had drawn. The girl in the mirror was crying and the girl on the floor felt sorry for her. She picked up her band aids and cleaned her painting, making sure the crimson paint that came from within her would not spill out. Her painting would now be there forever and she was satisfied. The girl turned away from the mirror and walked further from the pain in the room. Painting a smile on her ugly face as she slipped a sweater over her fat body, hiding her still bleeding painting.
Part Two:
It’s routine now. The girl stepped on the glossy black scale. The numbers had gone down. She was now down to seventy two pounds. The girl in the mirror had finally began to shrink too. But the mirror girl hadn’t shrunk enough. The girl on the scale wouldn’t be satisfied until the mirror girl stopped her crying and shrunk too. The girl on the scale loved to destroy the mirror girl. For the third time today she got out her deadly paintbrush and painted a picture of crimson on her ever so delicate skin. The girl, now on the floor, looked at her crimson paint, creeping down her arm and pooling in her hand. It dripped through the cracks of her fingers, leaving deep red blotches on the floor. It was then that the tears burst through her stone heart and shielded eyes. The girl forgot about the blood in her hand and whipped it down in frustration, creating a gruesome scene of scarlet splatters. She sobbed and put her hands to her face, ignoring the warm liquid on her hand. The girl looked into the mirror and saw that the mirror girl looked so broken. So hurt. She shouldn’t look like that. The mirror girl needs to be strong. She shouldn’t cry. The girl on the floor gave a frustrated scream and threw her hair brush at the bottom of the mirror. The glass shattered, but didn’t fall. She hated crying. She hated being weak. She hated being ugly, and fat, and stupid. The girl lay there on the cool white tiles of the bathroom floor, sobbing violently. Clear salty tears splashed against the tiles, mixing and swirling with the splattering copper liquid coming from her arm. She stayed like that until the bleeding slowed, and eventually stopped. It didn’t take that long, but it felt like hours that she was huddled there, bleeding and afraid. The girl on the floor stood up, wearing only a bra and underpants, so she could have accurately weighed herself. She looked in the mirror, and what she saw shocked her. Looking back at her was a girl who was not herself. This girl had honey golden hair, that looked like wheat in the sun. But it seemed faded and thin. Her cheek bones were very prominent, almost jutting out. Her brown eyes were the color of chocolate, but they held nothing but deep sorrow and pain, and an everlasting loneliness in self hate. There was black and purple makeup running down her pale cheeks. The girl didn’t have acne, or splotchy skin. There were a few freckles across her nose. The girl’s body was a sight to be seen. There were scars and bleeding lines everywhere. But what startled the girl in the bathroom the most, was the bones. There were so many bones on the mirror girl. And they weren’t pretty like she thought they would be. They were ugly. The girl’s ribs were stuck out, her stomach flattened in. Her legs were toothpicks, as were her arms. She looked sick and broken. Unnatural and unhealthy. The girl in the bathroom hated it. This was not who she was. The girl in the mirror never lied though, and if the girl in the bathroom couldn’t accept that, there would only be more bones, more lines made with a deadly paintbrush. The girl in the bathroom put a hand to her stomach, and sure enough, she could feel every bone in her abdomen. She turned around and twisted to see her back. The movement looked like it should break her. But she had long ago been broken. Every bump of the girl’s spine stuck out a sickly amount, making her look dead, like the skeleton in a science classroom. The mirror girl stared back at the girl in the bathroom. Slowly, she stepped on the scale. Seventy two pounds. This was not who she was. Not who the mirror girl was. And The girl in the bathroom wanted to help the mirror girl be healthy again, not to be so sick. But to do that she must get better herself. But no one understands it. The pain in her stomach makes her happy, gives her satisfaction. Her paintbrush and crimson paint with a flesh colored canvas was her escape, it was her release. The girl looked into the mirror once more before leaving the room to get what she needed to clean it. After she cleaned it, she left the room and she didn’t look back to the mirror girl.
Part Three:
The girl closed her eyes and walked into the room with the cool white tiles, the full length mirror that had been fixed, and the glossy black scale. What the girl did first was look in the mirror. The mirror girl looked better now. Her honey golden hair had regained it’s shine, her chocolate brown eyes were sweet and warm, but they still held sadness and trickling drops of self hatred. Her skin was creamy and smooth. The girls bones were mostly hidden now, but this time with muscle and a beautiful, healthy layer of fat. Her thighs touched lightly when she walked, her arms weren’t toothpicks anymore. This girl looking back at her, didn’t look like the girl in the bathroom. The only relation between the two girls were the fading red lines and the white scars of paintings past that decorated her toned and otherwise smooth, pale skin. The girl in the bathroom stepped onto the glossy black scale and glanced down past her flat stomach and toned legs. She looked past the toes of her delicately large feet and observed the numbers that rest there. It hurt, but looking back to the mirror, she looked better then when the numbers were smaller. One hundred fifteen pounds. The scale’s numbers were comforting and tear bringing at the same time.
The girl on the scale looked down at her fading scars and angry red lines. She frowned, she couldn’t let them define her anymore. But it was an addiction of the most complicated kind. She reached for her sharpened paintbrush and poised it over the canvas of her skin. For the first time ever, she hesitated. These paintings would only control her life. But she didn’t want them too. She turned to the girl in the mirror, still mimicking her actions. Her chocolate eyes held a cold resolve and she would do it too. Together, finally as though they were one person, the girl in the mirror and the girl on the scale turned to the side. And together, they threw out the paintbrush made of steel. Together they left the life of pain. And the girl, whose reflection was now her own, left the room with a smile that was completely real. She was showing the world her battle scars, her faded paintings. And she was proud.
