She enters the house and she can finally breathe. It’s as if a weight is lifted off her shoulders, more than just her beaten and used school backpack. Alone, she thinks. No one to stare, no one to see. She lugs herself to the vast, empty mirror that is in display in the her parents living room and does the usual scan; pale skin, mocha colored hair in curls, and vibrant green eyes. Nothing has changed since the last time she looked. Her gaze lingers on her new body, the one that isn’t hers. Disgusting. The once empty crevasse in her abdomen now houses a swollen stomach, jutting out and mocking her for her recovery
or failure an acid tone reminded her.
Tears beginning to fill her eyes, thinking of what she gave up for her 6 month stay at the lovely Lakeside residential care unit. The endless hours of exercising, secret trips to the bathroom, days of fasting, done. Years and years of strict dedication gone. She has new rules she must follow. She is to remain on constant watch. She must eat with her parents and not allowed within the bathroom for 2 hours without supervision. Her intake is monitored, along with her whereabouts, 2 am workouts at the 24-hour gym will no longer be acceptable.
She looks at the clock in the kitchen, the green digital numbers reminding her she only has 2 hours until her mom gets home. 2 hours of unsupervised activities. That’s all she needs.
Quickly, 6she runs to her mothers room, rummages around the closet and picks up the floorboard. There, a hidden scale is found. She takes a deep breath and removes everything that could possibly give a false reading- right down to her earrings. As if it’s a death sentence, she slowly steps up to the scale and waits. Fat. Worthless. Disgusting. Numbers flash through the screen before it reaches its final outcome.Time stands still as she looks at the number confirming everything she has thought
told you so, fatass. It hisses again.
“Shut up” she mutters quietly in her head.
So pathetic You get fatter by the minute...you’re weak.
shut up shuttup SHUTTUP she retorts.
make me, edges the voice. Hard.
Without a breath of hesitation, she goes into her next activity. It’s the routine she’s used to following: mirror, scale, bathroom.
She looks into yet another mirror hanging above the sink. Looking back at her is a twisted, ugly person with swallow skin, thinning brown hair, and a vacant stare.
Centered with the toilet, kneeling, lurching, her digestive system is put on rewind. Everything she has ate becomes evident and on display. Eventually, her stomach emptied. She lays on the bathroom floor, the icy tiles refreshing to her skin, sheer with sweat. For once, she hears nothing come from the acidity: No voice, no thoughts, no feelings. Numb. She savors the silence then hides all evidence of her illness.
Gingerly, she wipes off the running mascara, grab a swish of Listerine, desperate to conceal the bitter taste of bile and blood, and flushes the toilet. Exhausted, she slips into the covers of her bed. As she drifts into the drowsiness, she is congratulated.
Empty, pure. Be proud of it, Janice. You’re almost there.
Closing her eyes, she smiles, triumphant and trying to ignore the twinge of doubt
What exactly is there? And how much longer can I go?
