You miss the days when all your performances were done in the privacy of your own mind. Now it just seems like whichever direction you turn, you are thrust into the spotlight. It is time for you to take the stage'put on your mask and cover up a world far more uglier than reality.
The lines you sprout are nothing more than lies you've made up. Lies you've rehearsed a thousand times over in your head to stop the never ending barrage of insistent demands' interrogations. The more flawless your routines become, the further you retreat back into the cold depths of your world. Before you know it, all of it, the pretending, the act, the lies, had made you so tired you feel sick.
There are days when you stare into the mirror, squint your eyes and trying to penetrate through your reflection. You try to see past all the bulging fat, unattractiveness and just see you. It's difficult, because no matter which way you look at yourself, you always feel like you are drowning, in a frigid, black suffocating wave of fat. You want to scream at the mirror, grab it and throw it to the floor, but you know even that wont ease the pain, even by a half.
The tears start then, a series of transparent globes coursing down your skin with such speed that in a single moment they begin to drip down your chin and spill onto your shirt. What's strange about these regular outbursts is that they never seem to make you feel any better. They only serve to remind you of the qualities you lack and how terribly weak and disgusting you've become.
An empty shell.
Who am I really? You find yourself constantly wondering to yourself. You know who you want to be; slim, beautiful . . . just perfect really, but right now you are far from that said goal. Actually, you think you might be licking the bottom of the success barrel because you missed the ladder altogether. You know you've got a long climb to keep a hold of that dream, because you're sure that it won't plummet down to your level.
You tell yourself everyday, that if you lose the fat (and you will), your problems will all go away. For awhile you actually believe it . . . that is until you begin to feel the control you told yourself you had, slip like water through your fingers.
'It '(that was how you liked to refer to your obsession) starts off insignificant really. An offhand comment about your weight. A little suggestion at the dinner table that maybe having seconds isn't such a good idea. Asking for another piece of chocolate bar and being told you're greedy, and of coarse the forever existence of friends with size 10 waists. It doesn't bother you at first of course, but later when you are alone (Probably flicking through a magazine filed with ultra skinny supermodels) you find your self wondering. Doubting the way you see yourself, questioning how you are in the eyes of another. Suddenly, all those earlier remarks are coming back to you and start to sink in slowly yet painfully all the same. They play like an unwanted loop at the back of your mind
Maybe . . . .
Without thinking, you are in front of the mirror, stripping off your clothes like a woman possessed. You pull your sweater over your head so fast, your hair at the front is fizzed out in all directions. Once stark naked, you peer at your panting reflection and it's as if the world suddenly stops.
For a moment you hold yourself as though caught by an unexpected flashbulb explosion; eyes peeled, breath held as you absorb the reflection that stands before you. Inside you're pleading, wishing that what you see is not real, but it is. You turn sideways, and try not to choke over the lump that has started to form in your throat. The mountain of fat, the wobbly bottom, the huge hips and bulging belly, its all you.
How could you not have seen . . . all this time . . . that that great lump staring back at you . . . is you?
You make a vow from that day onwards to stay away from food. That is the first step which bounds you to this world you have created. It is that very vow, which takes over your life, thoughts and feelings until all you can think about is losing weight.
No matter how hard you try, you can't excape. You have found something similar to hell. Or maybe hell has found you. And hell always begins, it never ends. Its flame are always there, ready to scorch your arms, your legs . . . and your mind whenever 'it'� feels you are trying to see beyond its suffocating walls. It forces you to say, with an almost possessive feroicessnes. Until it has sucked every last drop of resistence out of you . . .
Lying doesn't make you feel guiltly anymore. What's far more amazing than how easily you say deceitful things is the ease with which you forget about them. If your parents ask you what you've eaten, you don't even hesitate. The words are flying out of your mouth before you can even think. You tell them you ate at school. If they probe further, you have two choices. You can ever go on the offensive or recount a very descriptive story about what you ate. Most of the time you go with choice two.
School dinners was pizza and baked potato, you tell mum pulling a face. The dinner lady put gravy all over your pizza (although you had told her so many times before not to)so that it was practically swimming in a brown sea. Of coarse that sort of grossed you out so you only ate the potato. You roll your eyes to make it sound a little more believable.
It doesn't matter that people are now starting to look at you a little strange. You don't care. Your parent say you look sick, you've lost a lot of weight. You tell them you haven't, not much, not enough. Your friends at school start to wonder at your sudden interest in P.E, so you make up a whole bunch of lies about your new exercise regime which guarantees fast weight loss. Or maybe you burst in to tears and tell them that things at home were a little strained because your parents are constantly arguing about everything. If theyre still not convined, you snap at them, tell them to lay off.
All lies of coarse, but it keeps them happy. You answer all their questions but you don't really. You're merely performing, going through the motions of things you ought to say, thing you ought to do, but never really showing them the truth. It's exhausting, but you like it that way.
Weeks, months go by and you're still holding firmly to your 'no food' promise. Only staying away from food is not as easy as it sounds. Most of the time you feel exhausted and your grades are slipping drastically because you can hardly concentrate in school. You're so busy dreaming of food you can think of nothing else.
Sometimes you allow hunger to take over you, and before you know it you're in the kitchen. Stuffing crisp into your mouth. Gulping down huge cartoons of milk. Buttering yourself jam sandwiches. One, two, three slices. . . . four. Reaching into the cereal boxes and pulling out handfuls of cereal and ramming it down your throat. Swallowing food without even chewing. Choking, breathing deeply, chest heaving, heart hammering.
Then you start to feel a little nauseous. Your stomach is bulging over your baggy jeans. bileis rushing to your throat and you feel awful. You just stand there trying not to cry and think, ' what have I done . . . what have I done . . .!'� Your hand goes over your stomach feeling the horrible bulge then forms a claw as you begin to scratch hysterically at your skin . . . you want to tear out your insides
You have to get rid of it all before your body can digest it and store it as great heaps of fat on your body. You rush to the bathroom, making sure to tiptoe as you pass your parents room. You wonder what is so secretive that they're talking in hushed voices. About you maybe? You suddenly wonder if it's good idea, doing it now. They might hear. .
No, you quickly decide. It has to come out now. All of it . ...
You walk into the bathroom and close the door gently behind you. For a moment you stand there, and look at the toilet. You know what you have to do, but you don't want to. You walk over to the sink and turn on the tap' both taps. It's for the benefit of your parents. You don't want them to hear you. You don't even want to hear this yourself.
Hands gripping the toilet seat hard enough to turn your knuckles white, shoulders braced as though in an anticipation of a physical blow from behind. Trembling slightly, you put one finger down your throat and are sick, terribly sick. Your body jutts forward, your mouth widens and it all rips out of you in chunky yellow slime. Tears stream down your face, but you don't stop until you're sure everything is gone.
Your stomach feels tight and empty, your heart is pounding in your ears but shockingly you feel better. More alive. Satisfied. All that muck in the toilet represents all the fears, ugliness, sadness, and confusion you had bottled up inside of you. Rotting you insides.
You're surprised by the sudden force of a single, choking cough, and have to lean forward to swallow back the resulting acidic lump gathered in your throat. Wiping your mouth, you stand up slowly. The bathroom mirror is just above the toilet, so without actually meaning to, you are put face to face with your mirror image. The glass is old, its surface spotted black where the silver has been chipped away, and the reflection it returns isn't quite right. Accentuates the shadows in a way that turns the smudged eyeliner around your eyes into bulging black circles, deepens the lines on your forehead and mouth into withering cracks. You look older than your 15 years.
You pull back and try to smile, but instead of turning up, the corners of your moth turn down. You start to sob. Help me, a small voice somewhere inside pleads.
It's so low, you can barely hear it. In fact, you wonder how long it will be before it disappears all together. The words sort of remind you of that movie you saw once. What was it called? Oh yes, you remember now. The Fly. The one where the guy has a tiny little human head stuck on a fly body and he's trapped in a spider web and he's going 'h-e-l-p m-e-e-e' in this tiny little voice. And one guy's so grossed out he just crushes him. You giggle. It's weird that you've suddenly thought of that, but it helps to cheer you up' a little. The tears so sudden and gushing a moment ago leave only two dishwater stains.
Suddenly there's a knock in the door. It startles you and you jump.
'You alright in there?'' Its dad, his voice sounding worried.
Your eyes widen. You wonder if he has heard something. .. ? No you can't afford to think like that . . .! You swallow once to get the bad taste out of your mind. Close your eyes for moment to get your bearings. Take in a deep breath then,
'Yeah I'm alright,'' you shout back. Then groan. 'Well actually not really . . . that Indian takeaway we had for dinner has given me, you know . . . a tummy upset.'
There is a small silence in which you are holding your breath. You hope dad will by it. He does and laughs
'I did warn you,' he says back, pauses then, 'when you've finished come down to the living room, we're playing a game of monopoly.'
You groan again, but this time you actually mean it. 'Yay monopoly,' you mutter unenthusiastically. 'I'll just hurry up then.'
You feel dad pause behind the door (thank god for the door) as he recognises your sarcasm but for the moment just laughs it off. 'Less of the cheek, 'he says jokingly and walks away.
When you hear his footsteps grow further away, you exhale loudly. That was close, you think. You grab a tissue off the tissue holder and dab at your wet eyes. Take in a shuddering breath and blow your nose. Pull back the strands of hair that have come loose from your ponytail. You put your hand under the hot water tap that has now turned cold from having run so long
'Don't do this to me!' you say to no one in particular, but funny enough something or someone must have heard beacuse instantly the water becomes steam and your hands, which a second ago were almost turning blue, are now a blistered red. Just as the burn's first flash of pain arrives you manage to stick it under the cold tap. You wince as fingers rub over your knuckles. It's a bit sore from where your teeth have brushed against it. It's not the first time you've used your hands as a gagging device so you're not surprised by the pain.
After washing your hands you dry them on off on your trousers legs. You take one last look in the mirror, put back on your eyeliner, careful not to smudge. Once you're done repairing the crack in your mask, you slip it back on, with one fluid motion. It fits perfectly.
Taking in a deep you start to open the bathroom door.
Into the spotlight again, you think to yourself. Act 1 scene 3.
![[send message]](http://slow.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](http://slow.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing