Fairyland

Countdown

It starts innocently, with a brief frown as I observe my mirrored reflection. Her voice seeps into the back of my mind as just a simple suggestion: "I could lose a few pounds."

    Dissatisfaction leads to one salad chosen over chicken nuggets, a small victory but it doesn't come easily. I need to build discipline, lose 10 pounds. Shedding all my clothes off, for the most accuracy of course, I step on the scale with yet another disappointed frown. 10 turns to 20, which turns to 30. It's not about 'perfect' anymore; it's about looking sick. Yes, sick is beautiful, empty is the true perfection.

    Frail, light, yet always disappointed. It's a countdown now, starting at 100. Maybe I can get to 90, maybe I can get to 85, perhaps 75. 70 would be Perfection. The scale starts the clock: 100. 99. 98. 97. 96. 95. 94. 93. 92. 91. 90. 89. 89. 89. 89. 89. It can't get past 89. Why can't it get past 89?

    Time freezes, the countdown slows near Fairyland. I'm almost into Fairyland, that's my goal. I need to do more, I'm bloating. I'm blowing up like a balloon now, injected with fat and ugliness. Blades from before the weight loss return to my bones, peeling at the skin bag that used to be a girl. The shell of a body sheds crimson liquid, oozing out of parallel gashes. I must punish myself, must get past 89, must get to Perfection. 70 isn't low enough, no. The countdown to True Perfection ends at-

    0.

I frown as I observe my mirrored reflection. Her voice, my best friend, the one who did it all, screams in my mind: "0 is the goal. 0 is Perfect, 0 is a feather, a fairy. 0. 0. 0. 70 is too fat, it'll always be too fat."

But what's the point if it's never enough? Fairyland is growing in my lungs, becoming the hiding place of pixies and flowers. Fairyland is beautiful, poking through my rib cage but I can't breathe.

It stops. Everything stops- the countdown, the voices, the Fairies dancing into my heart.

I wake up but everything is new; the room is too bright, the machines beeping too incessantly, and my parents are here with me in this strange place. It smells like...

A hospital. A doctor is murmuring evil words into my parents' fragile minds. They're too scared, too broken to fight. They're broken because I'm broken. Fairyland has grown into my brain, caressing me with promises of happily ever ever. It's squeezing too tightly in this hospital because it's afraid and vulnerable. Fairies are drinking my blood and replacing it with suffocating gold.

The doctor doesn't like Fairyland, he says it will take over and stop my heart. He says I will die. I don't want to die anymore, not like this. Not choking on the countdown and Fairy dust. He helps my parents fill my lungs with new words, new promises of life.

Promises of health.