Whimpering, she gathered her thoughts as well as the blood-coated shards of glass from the lacquered floor. The stinging in the side of her clenched fist passed by unnoticed; this was not the first time she'd punched a mirror in frustration, nor was it likely to be the last. Tears would not fall. Could not fall.
Her weakened body crumpled to the floor and she pressed her back firmly against the solid wooden door to gain a sense of existence. Her head swam with vertigo, her throat parched with inexplicable heat. Faint laughter escaped her parted lips as she gasped for precious oxygen. She stared at the blood seeping from the cuts in her hand and realised this was normal for her now. Every failure made this procedure her taboo ritual.
She heard the familiar knocking on the door behind her, yet it meant nothing to her. The ringing in her ears muted her partner's soft cries of her name, grateful she could not hear his voice breaking with emotion. His comforting words could never work on her, not when she bitterly harboured that one sentence he'd screamed at her upon discovering her controversial habit.
Only dogs go for bones.
Insanity danced across her glassy eyes, once deemed glossy. Many times in her life had people declared her a bitch, yet ironically now her purpose was to be a chew-toy, readily tossed aside when a more appealing model came along. Formerly the epitome of womanhood, a pumpkin scraped out possessed more flesh and substance than she.
Her previously iconic breasts rested as deflated mounds atop her prominent ribcage, every bone jutting through her painfully papery skin. Their individual protrusions both repulsed and gladdened her heart. Their grotesque appearance guaranteed her the horror-stricken glances and comments she felt she warranted. Each bulging bone a medal of victory, a reminder that every meal skipped had a greater cause. She trailed her numbed knuckles along her ribs as an eerie xylophone, the hollow knocking resonating from her action creating great pleasure.
Power-hungry by nature, it was the only appetite she believed in. Years of vocal rebellion achieved nothing, yet by depriving her body the nutrients it required she created more of a sensation than her loudest screams could ever match. None had the power to force her to eat, none could prise her mouth open and make her physically chew or swallow. Her life merely the crux of the maelstrom between her and her partner; devoid of substance or astuteness.
He begged her to end her starvation but his words did nothing other than to fan the flames fuelling her power. The weaker her shell—could never be referred to as a body again—became, her mind proportionately increased in strength. She no longer punished herself, this was to punish her comrade, for choosing elsewhere and to become something so hideous she made him suffer with every glance upon her skeletal frame. To let him know she was his spurned experiment. Psychological war games had never appealed to her, but with her great reduction in stamina it was her only option; every visible bone piercing through her frail skin would act as a knife to slit through his less obvious ribs and stab the feature she was positive he lacked. His heart.
Only dogs go for bones.
Were she capable of moving she would have unlocked the door and permitted him the vision of her sprawled across the tiles. Allow him the opportunity to find some sexual appeal in her appearance. She wore black underwear the smallest sizes available, but both bra and briefs gaped from her skin, struggling to maintain their correct positions. Menstruation ceased months ago, which made her joyous. With her underwear so unwilling to fit her properly, the situation would be messy in the least. It acted as a further reminder that she revolted against nature; she was not female. Soon, she would not be human.
Her laughter waned as she studied the crimson haemoglobin trickling down her spindly digits. She lacked the obligatory levels of protein for the wounds to clot properly and repair her torn epidermis. She shut her wafer-thin eyelids and felt the desire to weep well slowly within, but knew she could not cry. Her emotions were the first part of her to die. Her head was probably cold whilst in contact with the chilled floor but she could not access such useless information, her body numbed. Her hair offered little warmth; although she once possessed lustrous locks rich in hue, straw was stronger and more pleasant to touch than her thin frayed strands. She subconsciously wondered how many hairs would fall out in her hand when she touched it next.
Her reflections in the bloody shards danced maliciously in her face as she gazed upon them, reminding her that she was still too fat for her goal to be thoroughly successful. Although it was a chore, she could still pinch skin from her forearm, and knew that she could work harder so she could not raise it at all.
Only dogs go for bones.
He would get his cursed bones. Her body mass index was dangerously low as it was, and she intended to have no fat at all left in her system. She could not guarantee this plan, but she would carry on with it until her body consumed the stringy muscles in her fragile heart for calories she refused to provide. Her soft laughter returned as the light of lunacy faded from her haunted eyes. Soon, she knew, her bones could get picked at as carrion. Soon.