Be Careful What You Wish For

She sighed and glowered and threw herself back into the pillows, slamming the phone into the bed as she did so. It wasn't fair. That photo only had five likes. And one of those was Natasha so that didn't count because everyone knows Natasha is shit. She brought the phone to her face again and opened the app again. She examined it critically again, deciding it showed her fat cheeks and weird-shaped mouth and messy hair, that one strand that would not do what she wanted it to.

She jumped up, determined to take a better picture - maybe she could change the lighting, or her lipstick, or maybe change her hairstyle altogether - and such was her enthusiasm that she caught the edge of the desk with her thigh and the mirrored jewellery box a random auntie had given her for Christmas yonks ago crashed to the floor. Though she loathed it for being so tacky and lame, she grabbed it hastily and took the cuff of her hoodie to where she thought it had scuffed. She rubbed it twice to no avail so spat on it and kept rubbing.

The box immediately began smoking and shaking violently in her hands. The lid flew open and with a bang there stood before her the tall translucent form of a man in Oriental attire and a distinguished moustache. She eyed him suspiciously. "Are you a paedophile?" she said plainly.

The apparition arched an eyebrow. "Darling, if I were, I would not be hiding in a mirrored jewellery box I assure you." She shrugged. "Anyhow," he shrilled, "you know the drill. Genie, three wishes, no making people fall in love, or death, or raising the dead, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

The girl furrowed her brow, thinking hard about all the things she'd ever wished for; all the problems and grief she'd ever felt, and about how shit her life was right now. She knew immediately the first thing she needed to wish for. "Genie," she declared, flicking back her hair, "I wish I'd lost my virginity."

Her hovering subject arched an eyebrow again, but could say no more. "As you wish," he replied, clicking his fingers and bowing. The girl scrunched her eyes, awaiting the amazing pleasure everyone at school had told her about. It never came. Instead, a sharp pain, followed by a wet warmth between her legs. She turned from the genie to inspect it and found it was blood. As she stared at it on her fingers, her mind felt... Odd. Like... A memory, but not quite. Like something she knew had happened but could not quite recall. Suddenly she was flooded with feelings, that raced through so quickly that she could not grasp or quite pin down. Shame; embarrassment; fear; awkwardness; anger; self-loathing - they all erupted through her without order or reason leaving her disorientated and crying. As her sniffling died, she looked to the genie who simply crossed his arms and said, "Next wish."

She took some time to recover from the ordeal of her first wish by picking up her phone and scrolling through Facebook. A picture of Sasha from Maths who reckoned she'd been scouted by Chanel caught her eye and after just three hours she had clicked through every last one of her photos - all in the Mayfair filter by the way - and settled on her next wish. "Genie, I wish to be skinny forever," she said decisively.

The genie clicked his fingers and bowed once again, his eyebrow raised only as he stooped. In a matter of seconds, the girl had lost weight and was skinny. Looking at her wrists she squealed with delight - this was amazing! She'd never have to buy anything in a size 12 ever again! She immediately took a picture, using her best pout, and uploaded it to all of her social media sites with the caption, "lots ov work to look dis good but is totally worth it! Feels amazin to feel so pretty and hot no more fat whale for me its diet & exercise all the way xxx". She felt drained - from all the excitement, she supposed - so decided to have some supper and go to bed. The cheese sandwich was quite nice, and so were the crisps, but for some reason she felt unwell. She rushed to the toilet and threw it all back up. That felt better.

As she climbed into bed she opened all the apps on her phone to see how much love her friends were giving her new skinny look. To her dismay only 7 people had liked it on Instagram, 3 on Facebook and nobody had retweeted it on Twitter. There were 10 comments, though, on Instagram so she opened those with glee. To her horror, they were not lavishing praise and adulation on her but pouring ridicule and scorn. "fukn anorexic twat" read one, while another said "hahaha u luk lyk a skeleton". At the eighth comment, that said "wen r u gona die?", she tossed the phone away and wiped the tears from her eyes. The ninth comment had said, "r u OK?".

She took a few moments to compose herself before settling on her third and final wish - something obvious, to her. She needed people to like her. "Genie," she said, to the floating, disinterested vision, "I wish I had more followers." The genie sighed and rolled his eyes. "Done," he said, clicking his fingers and bowing. The girl returned to her phone and her social media only to find there was no change.

She sobbed herself to sleep that night, and the next morning awoke still feeling awful. She walked shakily to the shower and scrubbed her frail frame delicately, suddenly frightened she might snap one of her sparrow legs or her toothpick wrists. Before applying her makeup, she studied her gaunt and pallid face. Her head seemed huge, her eyes sunken but bulging at the same time. Her hair, too, seemed lifeless and dry and difficult. She did the best she could - with it all - and went to eat some breakfast, glad that both her parents had left for work. The cereal and banana were tasteless and horrid to chew and so, before she left for school, she went to the toilet and threw it up. That was better.

On her way to school she felt frightened. There seemed to be men everywhere. She was sure they were going everywhere she went. Some, she was sure, even stepped behind trees and cars so as not to be seen but she had seen them. Creeps.

At school, though, it got worse. It started with funny looks, then nobody wanted to sit next to her, then came the whispers in the corridors and classrooms, calling her a 'slag' and a 'slut' and saying she had herpes and was pregnant and would sleep with a boy for a Curly-Wurly and ten Lambert. Several teachers asked her to stay behind after their lesson and asked her if she was OK as she seemed very different to before the summer holidays, but she assured them she was fine and they could only take her word. Her phone lit up all day but it was not notification of online appreciation: someone had added her number to the wall of the cubicles in the boys' toilets. She sobbed walking home and a small group of old men wearing macs and lecherous smirks traipsed obediently ten paces behind her.

On and on it continued this way, for almost three weeks. Her parents were horrified at her appearance and scolded her for being so silly as to end up being anorexic, as she had no good reason for it. Anorexia was for poor and broken people. The police called several times to disrupt the large crowd that amassed in their front garden and seemed to swell each night. Her parents were not best pleased about that either as they were trampling all over the lawn. Everywhere she went men gawped at her and walked behind her, studying her every move, which made her even more physically sick than the anorexia was already. She had to leave school due to the relentless bullying. At every corner; every table, someone hurled hurtful names at her - shaming her for her appearance and for losing her virginity at fourteen. One night it grew too much. At the Witching Hour she took herself to her local motorway bridge and stood, trembling, on the wrong side of the railing. In spite of the hundred-strong flock gathered behind her, she felt so alone in the world. This was not how it was meant to be; not what she'd asked for. A choked gasp left her lips as she released her grip on the cold metal and fell, followed dutifully by the entire group of sweaty, grubby men.

Her funeral was a sparse affair - her immediate family and a few people from school. Natasha cried the most, exclaiming in shrieks that she'd tried; that she'd asked her if she was OK, but to no avail. As the time came to lower the coffin into the ground, the girl's Auntie placed the mirrored jewellery box on top and, between breaths, her parents nodded approvingly - "it's what she would have wanted."