The Way You Loved Me
She stares into the mirror as a flawed, imperfect face creeps right back. Dying, gaunt, and ill, her body is screaming for her to stop the torture. Her hair, once full of shine falls flat, matted against her head; flaxen waves turning crisp, thinning. Tiny hairs lay in the sink, dead and fallen. "Like leaves in winter," She recalls, her best friend, Tapanga's voice relaying itself from the back of her mind.
Gaunt, boney fingers clutch the sink for dear life. Dull, blank eyes watch expressionless, bloodshot and wide. Her thin frame, usually masked beneath baggy shirts and jeans, stands out against the pale, yellow walls. She notices then: the thin layer of skin, barely there, covering her gaudy, pointy rib cage as it tries to pierce through her skin. With every movement, her skin pulls lightly over her bones. If anyone were to see her now, standing in nothing but her bra and underwear, locked in her bathroom, they would surely make comments about her learn frame.
Bottles of diet pills line the countertop, the tops screwed off all the orange, plastic cylinders. The names upon the bottles, to whomt he medicine was prescribed, needn't matter to her. "Just a few more pounds," She whispers, tiny feet stepping onto the heavy, metal scale. Watching the dial move back and forth. Eighty, seventy-two, eighty-eight, she watches, eyes wide, breath caught. Seventy-nine.
Groaning slightly, she takes a step backwards, what had she eaten that day? What could have caused this two pound weight gain, in two weeks? How could she lose the weight? Perhaps limit her calorie intake to 100 calories per day, only for a few days?
With one swift motion, she pulls her golden hair into a bun, sitting messily atop her head. Slipping into her boyfriend's old football jersey, Givanni smiled once she realized how big it was for her, many sizes too large. As if her frame wasn't thin enough. The jersey hung low, seven inches below her knees; her bony, slender legs poked beneath the blue fabric, much like two twigs stretching towards the ground.
Her arms, barely three inches wide, hung limply at her side, bruised and scratched from the times she'd fallen off of her diet.
Glancing down at the cold, white tile floor, Givanni Cristoffe took in the many images: tall, lean women moderling high-fashion clothing, their arms and legs barely there, so thin, portrayed as perfection. Too bad photoshop took away all traces of imperfections, the slight scarring from all the surgeries, the dark rings circling their eyes, the irregularities of their bodies. No one is perfect, but the images scattered across Givanni's bathroom floor begged to differ.
Ready to slip out of the tiny, suffocating room, Givanni, takes one last look around, her beady, deadened gaze landing finally upon the sleek, white porcelain in the corner. The very same porcelain that's been branded the title of Givanni's best firned. The friend who taunts her, luring her in with the false satisfaction, false hope. "Just one more time," she says, her lips cracking as she smiles. "One more time,"
Falling to her knees, her face only inches away from the clear, unmoving water, she takes a deep breath. Images flash through her mind, images of a new and improved Givanni, the girl whom every guy fell for, the girl all other girls wanted to be. Tears rimmed her eyes, she knew what came next, she knew all too well.
As her body lurched, arched with every voluntary spasm, every gag, Givanni could hear a faint clapping behind her. "Good girl, Givanni. very good, just once more--" The all too familiar voice, Tapanga, paused as Givanni gagged once more, "Awe, there baby, that's good. No more perfecting tonight."
Blinking away the tears, Givanni stood, scrambling to her feet, quick to flush away all the remnants, all the broken pieces. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, turning around to face her no good, too bad she doesn't realize that, friend.