Alexis stern

The mirror was mocking me.

            I could see myself and all I could see is hate.  My body is pale and fat.  My eyes are brown and boring.  My hair is brown and looks like dead grass.  Most noticeably is the bulge in my stomach from the cracker I had eaten.  I hadn’t eaten anything that day and I promised my mother I’d grab a snack.

            I ate too much.  13 calories too much.  I’ll have to add fifty more sit-ups to my work out tonight to make up for what I ate.

            Then there’s the problem of dinner.  Tonight is lasagna and that’s too many carbs.  It’d go right to my thighs.  166 calories to my thighs which would destroy my thigh gap of one and a half inches.  My gap is finally bigger than Ana’s.

            “I’ll just say I’m not feeling well,” I whispered while pinching the skin on my stomach.  “If they make me eat I’ll throw it up and take some laxatives.”  My plan is flawless.

            I gaze at the mirror and study the reflection I’m ashamed to say is mine.  My body is so fat.  I run my fingers across my ribcage and count only three ribs that are visible.  Ana has me beat there; she has four showing.  My thigh gap is growing and when I walk less fat jiggles on my legs.  But there’s still fat.  “One hundred more squats,” I say slapping my leg, “and an extra mile this weekend.”

            I turn my back to the mirror and crane my neck around to see my shoulder blades.  They look like spikes jutting from my back.  I press my shoulders blades together and a roll of skin rises up in-between.  I pinch it in my grip and pull it from my spine, frowning.

            I shouldn’t have eaten that cracker.

            My hand falls to my side and I bend over to see my spinal columns rise from my back.  They rise like spines and I can see the back of my ribcage with little trouble.  I grip my side and yank until I have a fistful of fat.  Too fat.  Too fat.

            Looking down I see a roll from my stomach and I grip that, too.  My knuckles grow white as I try to pull myself out of my skin.  The fat won’t go away.  It’s sticking to me, swarming me and it won’t leave.  I don’t eat, I exercise when I can, I’m careful with my habits and yet it’s still under my skin leaving me ugly and—

            Fat.

            A tear drips from my cheek and I turn to stare into the mirror again.  I stare at my reflection with a surge of anger spiking my blood.  Why do I have to be so ugly?  Why can’t I be pretty?  Why must I suffer?

            I’m sitting on the tiled floor and my wrist is bleeding before I can think again.  The blade is in my hand, red along the edge and five horizontal lines bloom red from my wrist.  I don’t remember grabbing my blade, but I leave them everywhere in the house just in case this happens.

            My legs and arms are pale from past kisses with a blade.  Most of my older cuts were healing and almost gone, I could almost wear short-sleeves again, but that was a silly hope.  I knew I’d break again and my arms would become another canvas.

            The beads of blood have stopped forming and are already clotting.  I still feel nothing.  And everything.  I feel the hatred that my thoughts can’t voice aloud and the anger and sadness and numbness is boiling over inside my head.  They are screaming to get out, my voice crying for a relief while my chest tightens from silent sobs and my eyes squint from the stinging in my eyes.

            The blade slides across my wrist again and again and again until my arm is smeared red and the wringing in my ears vanishes.  The skin around my cuts sting and burn and the numbness is starting to reside.  The ache in my chest grows.  I continue to slash.

            My left arm is on fire and puffy from the cuts.  The blood is pooling in my elbow and dripping onto the floor.  My head feels light from the sight of so much blood leaving my body again.  Shit, I lie down on the floor as dots and lights flash behind my eyelids.  I can’t pass out.  No one can find me like this.

            Gritting my teeth, the lights behind my eyes stop flashing and a cold tingle runs through my hands and fingers, sparking a trigger of pain from my arm.  I sit up, relieved and place the blade on the counter, readying myself to stand.  My body sways and stumbles from the switch of sitting to standing, but I breathe in and begin my clean up.

            I grab the blade and rinse with water and wash it with soap for later use.  I dry it and put it back into my drawer.  I look down at my arm and judge the damage.  This won’t heal for a while.  The cuts are long and wrap almost entirely around my arm.  They start at the base of my hand and go to my elbow.  I’m going to be sore the next few days.

            Reluctantly, I grab a washcloth and wet it with water before dabbing the length of my arm, holding my breath to keep from whimpering.  I’m such a baby.  I can mutilate my arm without much thought, but the clean-up hurts like a bitch.  Ironic.

            After the blood is washed away and all that’s left are raised lacerations, swollen and red, I nod with approval of my handiwork and search for a cloth to wrap my arm with.  The cotton from my clothes will stick to the wounds and make it irritated and increase chance of infection.  Plus, I don’t want blood on my clothes.  I find the cloth wrap and exhale before wrapping my arm securely and velcroing the material together.  As long as I wear baggy sweatshirts no one will notice my unequal arm size.

            I slip my clothes back on and wipe the floor free of my blood and scrub the counter of any stray droplets.  It takes me ten minutes, but finally I’m pleased with the outcome and scurry from the bathroom to my bedroom.  I dive under the covers, turn off the light and wait for my mom to try to drag me from bed for dinner.

            A knock sounds from the door.

            “Dinner is ready,” Mom whispers into the darkness of my room.

            “I’m not hungry.”  My arm burns from moving my blankets.

            A sigh.  “Not feeling well again, sweetheart?”

            “Yeah, I just don’t feel well.  Sorry.”

            “That’s alright.  Get some rest, sweetie.”  The door closes.

            I roll onto my side and close my eyes.  My body is already exhausted from earlier and my muscles want to rest.  I push the blankets from my bed and get onto the floor, wincing from the twinge in my arm.

            “Just a hundred sit-ups and fifty squats, then I can sleep.”  I say to the dark.

            Three hundred sit-ups and a hundred-fifty squats later I’m lying in bed with my body burning and dozing to the sound of my rapid heartbeat.