The number blared on the little square screen. Ugly, fat, pig, ew, ew, ew. You're trying too hard. Skinny stick, twig, boney, ew, ew, ew.
It spoke of the stretch marks, the constant tightening of clothes, the whispers, the stares; it screamed of everything. It also whispered the struggles of placing the food on her tongue, the hopelessness of fitting into something, fitting into society. It ached of screaming. It hurt from whispering.
"I would be okay with you," she said to the number, "if they hadn't told me that you were too big or too small. Which one are you?"
The next week she dreaded the tiny machine, who meant no harm but just had a bad reputation. Her feet slowly walked to it, slower by each step till each movement shook with anxiety. She balanced herself onto the machine of power, watching the little arrow swing side to side. It landed on a number, no not a number. It landed on words.
You're beautiful.
"Do you like it?" I asked her.
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
