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

Weigh-In [Chapter 26]

With needles and enough make-up, you can fool anyone. 

As desperate as I was, I knew it'd be useless to rush. I had to make it look good. My shaky fingers grasping a metallic needle, I stitched up my worries in black thread. It was my first weigh in, which we had to do once a week until they set us free. 

I was doing my best to cover up my steady drop into the "danger zone". When I was first in the hospital, they pumped me full of fluid and nutrients. The IV drip of setbacks and shame. I'm not trying to be unhealthy, I swear, I just want to get back to my old weight. So here I am, sewing quarters into the lining of my underwear and bra. 

I need to add at least two pounds to my current weight. I've lost that much since I got off the fluids, but I most likely need to add another pound so it looks like I'm making "progress". It takes an unfortunate amount of quarters to do that, but Amaya promised to bring me better weights when she's allowed to visit. I don't know how she'll sneak them past security, but I've seen her do harder. 

A nurse swings the door open right after I've slipped my shirt back on. 

"Caia?" she asks. 

I nod, and she puts a hand on my shoulder, leading me toward Examination Room 3. 

"Alright Caia," she smiles warmly, "We're going to have you take off your clothes. You may leave your underthings on." I smile warmly at her and undress. She has no reason to suspect anything, my record states that so far I've been a model patient. Her assistant eyes me warily, and for a moment I worry that she sees right through me.

She reads the scale with a small frown, "93. I know it's hard, but let's try for more next time, ok?" she reaches out a hand to pat my shoulder, coupled with a sympathetic expression. 

"Ok, I'll try. This has just been a little hard," I match her sappy grin, making sure my eyes tear up a little for effect. Any doubt showing on her face disappears, replaced with a believing tilt of her head.   

"But-" her assistant interrupts. 

"Shh," the nurse says with a disapproving glare, "She's been through enough. Look,  she doesn't need people who don't believe in her." She tries to whisper, but I can hear every word.  

"I think you're just about done. We're not going to check your BMI this week, but be prepared," she puts a clip on my finger for my pulse, and examines my throat for tell-tale signs of making myself throw up. When she's satisfied with both results, she tells me I can put on my clothes and go. 

"See you next week," she calls out cheerfully. As I'm going out, the nurse's assistant catches up with me. 

"I know what you're doing," she hisses at me, "You can't fake recovery, real recovery. Just wait until next week," she smirks. 

I can't fake recovery?

Watch me.