Rough draft. Rated for language and content that may cause discomfort.
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We slam the bathroom door and spin to a collapse on the tiles. It is no longer me - it is we, now, me and this monster tangled and pressed together into one rage tonight. Look what you’ve DONE! she screams until my ears bleed with sound, hate. The blue-black light is nightmarish and thick and I cannot escape her, now, because she is me and I am her and there is no way out.
She skitters up and down my spine, cutting angry whispers curling into my brain and taking root there. You disgusting, hideous, repulsive pig. You have the NERVE to do this - to gorge yourself, and then wonder why he doesn’t like you. Well, I’ll show you why, you stupid little girl. Up, up goes the shirt. My stomach is tied in knots and piled full of filth and stretched taut over the burden of my dinner. And I cannot help myself then. I feel it. The need, the urge to rid myself of my sin. And that one quick twinge is all it takes.
The floodgates crash open and I don’t even try to ignore her screaming. Bitch whore slut stupid dumb cunt weak pathetic blind ugly FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT useless worthless disgusting. I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise her. The doorknob seems so far up, out of reach of my grasping claws. Too far away but I can see it, my shiny brass escape. She sees me looking and rakes her nails through my hair. No, not tomorrow. Now. Now. Now. You’re a teenager now, you have to pay for your mistakes. You can’t be daddy’s little girl forever. Time to grow up, sweetheart. Now fucking fix this. Tomorrow, I beg. Promise. I won’t eat, tomorrow.
Get up off the floor, then. You lazy pig. Crunches. Pushups.
The doorknob is turning -
She catches sight of an open magazine on the chest of drawers. Two thin and perfectly tan girls in white bikinis baring mouths full of pearls and hair full of sunshine. Such nice, nice things. Too nice for her. Us.
It pushes her over the edge.
The door is clicking open -
At the last moment, she sinks her claws into my heart and pulls me down with her.
When I am laying on the floor, head ringing, she sneaks up behind me and combs my hair with her fingers. Her breath is like clouds of ice on my neck. I blink, slowly, capturing this moment: blue tiles white door black shadows, my hand curled like a dead spider in front of me. You like him a lot, don’t you? She tries a different approach than her usual verbal assault. I am young and my head hurts and I fall for it.
Yes. I really like him.
You would do anything for him.
She knows I would.
What if I told you, there was a way?
A way to what? Heart quickening. Pupils dilate to absorb these new pinpoints of hope.
Well … she’s braiding my hair, brushing it off my face with her long, cold fingers. I feel her smile. You want to be good enough for him, don’t you?
Oh. Oh, yes. She has me now.
What if I told you there was a way?
I sit up. Show me.
And she shoves her fingers down my throat.
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