Memoirs of a Fat Girl
As of now this is a one shot to hold this story in my mind. If more is requested, more you shall get. I am completely dedicated to this story. I wasn't even going to post it, but I decided, "What harm could it do?"
I do not own Twilight, the plot or any characters of Twilight.
Hello. My name is Bella Swan, and I am fat. Ther'es no sugar coating, no getting around it. Plain and simple. I've accepted it.
PROLOUGE
August 3rd, 2010
Bella sat in her room with her shirt up her tummy was shiny and white as a vampire's ass. She felt her slightly raised stretch marks. They've faded into a light pinkish-brown. She looked over to her tiny dog and poked at her stomach again. She had her laptop open as she typed, multitasking. Bella was listening to 105.9 KHQ. Pop. She didn't know why she listened to it. Perhaps to make fun? The songs were jokes. As if to prove her point, 'Naturally' by Selena Gomez came on. Disney thought every so called "star" they produced could sing. As if.
Bella whacked away at her story. Her inspirement came easily, for the first few minutes, anyway. She layed back and looked at her posters. Ashley, Taylor, various bands. Her eyes came to her yellow butterflies. They had green hearts on them.
You see, Bella had a job. She worked at a daycare. 10 or more kids in and out every day. She had made the butterflies as a craft example. They were just simple foam. Later that night, though, in pretty pink foam letters, she'd glued two words. One for each butterfly.
Bella held a lot of resentment in her 13 year old heart. Everybody cooed about how mature and grown up she was. Bella did not want to grow up as fast as she did. Her mother had run the daycare straight out of their home. Her little brother was a colic. Her older brother never fell asleep sober. Her dad never did things he should have. Chasing after the perfect life, Bella grew tired.
Isabella Swan was not what you'd call thin. Or short. Or petite. Anything that referred to the longed after tininess. The tininess she was sure would make her feel pretty. Feminine. Loved. Bella was at a height of 5'9", a height she added to her resentment. She weighed a whopping amount of 252 pounds. Though a good bit of it was pure muscle, no one saw that. They saw the layer of fat that covered the muscle. They saw her size 20 pant size.
She gently pulled the hem of her shorts up. Her thighs were huge. She was the most insecure about her thighs, not only for the reason you'd think, either. She traced the scars on her legs. It seemed like an eternity ago that she had made them. There were more than a dozen on each leg. Long and faded to a deep brown, she thought about when she'd made herself quit.
Bella had told her friend. The one she thought she could trust with anything. Sure, she had friends closer to her than Taylor. She loved them to death, but if she had told them, it would have been around school faster than she could have said the words. She had a couple of people wondering, of course. But they saw her wrists, pure and unscarred. Bella wasn't so stupid as to put them in such an obvious, visible place.
Sometimes she toyed with the idea of doing it again. She knew where the glass was. she didn't make a move for them, though. Instead, Bella traced the scars again. On any other person, they would have long since faded. But not her. She had such an unbeleivably slow healing time, it wasn't even funny.
Bella leaned back and stretched. Sitting in such a position as she, the cramps had begun. She thought about her mother, who she made the strangest group with, whom she had inherited personality and compassion from. Her mother was average. Average height at 5'4". Average weight. Average size(8). She envied her mother.
She thought of how pathetic it was for a 13 year old girl to rather have the body of a 44 year old who'd had 3 kids to her own.
Once again, Bella eyes wandered her room. Again, her eyes fell upon her yellow butterflies. This time she stared at the little pink words that read her hostility to the world so well. Framed by different shades of green hearts. Placed on a backdrop bright, sunshiney yellow, so oppposing to the two simple words that litte foam peices held. There, tacked to her wall were the little word that held so much feeling.
"Fuck You"
So, what do you think? Worth continuing? This was a prolouge of sorts, I suppose. If I do contines, the next chapters will be in a POV other than third person.
Based on a true story. Some rights reserved.