She holds the dress to her frail body and looks into the mirror. Instead of seeing the pale deteriorating form before her, she sees a bloated beast in her reflection. The dress two sizes too small the body two sizes too big. Deep violet crescents cling to the hollow circles of her once vibrant blue eyes. Her black hair once thick and luscious now hangs dry and matted to her sunken face, the face of a skeleton. Yet all she can see was a face warped out of proportion, sickening in its obesity. Her eyes water, blurring the horrific image, and she dashes to the bathroom where she returns her meager breakfast into the toilet, with shaking hands she holds back her hair, heaving when she has nothing left in her stomach. The familiar stench of vomit burns her nose and the fowl taste that she has become so accustomed to lines her mouth. She huddles on the cold floor and cries, cries out all her frustrations, hurts, and fears. Although she can never manage to cry out all the pain, no matter how many tears flood her face, she continues to cry without abandon. The multitude of pain infused tears, puddle on the chilly tile around her, dripping as fast as her racing mind.
Expensive decor adorns the walls, shelves, and counter-tops around her. Rare perfumes fragrance the room; special scented candles give the room an inviting warm glow when lit. Something she hadn’t bothered with for months. Towels that are more expensive than most people’s wardrobe hang from the ornate iron rack. She doesn’t care about that, pretty things can’t fix her. Money can never heal the pain or remove the scars on her heart, soul, and mind. Her parents think that by buying her the priciest things on the market that will somehow fix the fact that they are too occupied with their deteriorating relationship to notice her deteriorating body. Maybe they’ll notice when they are lowering their only daughter’s casket into a premature grave, or maybe not. Her epitaph reading: “Mandy Greenwood. 1993-2010. she walked through life unloved and unnoticed.”
She hates this life but this is just home life. School life is twice as bad. Monday morning will come around all too soon and she will be forced to reenter the sewer system that people dare to call school. Senior year was supposed to be special; hers is a century in Hell. Each day the judging stares and cruel whispers attack her with such uncalled for fury, she is the ‘emo freak’ that all the popular kids prey on. Her humiliation is their entertainment. ‘accidentally’ tripping her, spilling food on her, and knocking her books to the floor are just a few of the abuses forced upon her. She wants to attack them back; her disease is their fault. They critiqued her innocent body and called her fat when she clearly was not. But soon enough she began to believe the viscous lie and turned to the sick ritual that now consumes her. She wants to make them hurt like she hurts. But she doesn’t. She says nothing, does nothing. She suffers in silence. She suffers alone.