I stare out my window, tapping my fingernails on the black sill. Right now, all I can think about is taking a trip to the gym. I pace around my room, wanting to scream at the stupid urges. Finally, I can take it no longer. I throw open my door, gym bag in hand. I've only been twice today, once for my daily workout and once for just a 10-minute run around the tracks.
I grip the handle of the door, grabbing my coat before stepping out. Suddenly, a warm hand grips my shoulder. I turn around, not even bothering to flinch. It's my mother, a look of concern on her face.
"Eva, sweetie," she says in her heavy Slovenian accent, "Where is it that you are going?"
"Out mom" I snap, "I'm going out."
"Are you going to that gym again?" her tone is warm and caring, but it annoys me. Why does she care if I go to the gym? "Honey, this is not good for your health."
I just turn and walk away. I don't need anybody telling me how to live. Plus, I need the gym, and it needs me. I'm their most regular member, and I need to stay in prime shape. My parents are such health freaks, so it's their fault for making me this way.
The walk to the gym is short, just a few minutes into town. I get my cardio this way, so I usually stick to weights when I get to the gym.
I arrive and push open the door, and Randy, the gym's owner, smiles at me. He's become closer than family the past few years.
"Ah, Eva," he cheerily exclaims, "it's nice to see you again! How's the family?"
"They're good," I say, a fake smile spreading across my face, "Ales is still being an annoying little brother, and Helena is going through some 13-year-old girl crisis."
Randy chuckles, and I walk back to the locker room, breaking our conversation. A few older women sit around, some in towels, some in ridiculous workout clothes. I step into a shower stall, and strip down. I dare to take a peek at myself in the mirror, and then immediately wish I hadn't.
I guess I'm a pretty girl. I have a nice, curvy figure, and a pretty big bust. However, the huge muscles that cover my body disgust me. I can't stand how I look, how strong I am, how I could probably kill somebody with a forceful enough hit. But I need it, I need my strength. Without it, nobody respects me. I'm just the weird foreign girl without my muscles. Plus, the high from all the working out is great. It's addictive, in its own way.
I slip my workout clothes on, then head out, leaving my gym bag by my locker. I know pretty much everyone at this gym, and nobody would bother to steal it. I don't think anybody would want some tattered old jeans, a black tee shirt, shampoo, or an old bar of deodorant.
When I get out to the weightlifting machines, I see Jacob, an old friend. He smiles at me, then gets back to his workout. I start my own, walking to the bench. I grab two 25-pound weights, then slip them on either side of the bar. I lift for about 15 minutes, then stop, tired. I get up, stretch my arms, then grab a mat and an exercise ball. I lay down and do situps, again for 15 minutes.
By this point, I'm exhausted. I decide to retire to the showers, something that's always made me calm. My rage issues are from the years of bullying that I endured when I first moved from Slovenia. That's what made me strong. I started exercising as something to keep my mind off of the emotional abuse.
In the shower, I look down at my body. I hate how I look, I hate how much I hate myself. Then, I start to touch my body. I feel myself, every muscle. I make my way down to the curly wisps of black pubic hair. I normally don't do this, but... I need to feel better right now. I slowly slip one finger into myself, then another. I finger myself for a while, then stop. I can't make too much noise, or somebody will get suspicious.
Turning the knob back, I step out of my shower, wrapping one of the gym's pale orange towels around my body. I dry off, pulling my hair back into its usual ponytail. Then, I slip my underwear on, following quickly with my clothes. I walk out, receiving a few goodbyes from the ladies in the locker room.
As I reach the front door, Randy calls to me. He looks almost concerned, and I can tell I'm going to get a lecture about me visiting the gym too often. Instead of listening to him, I just turn, and walk out the gym's doors. I fume the whole way home, not caring how many strange looks I get.
When I get home, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes are red, and I can tell she's been crying.
"Eva," mom says, her tone sharp instead of it's usual soft tone, "I am done with all of this nonsense. I am sending you to the rehab camp. You will stay all summer, and break your gym habit."
I just stand there, shocked. I can't believe she's sending me to rehab. I don't need help. I just run, tears welling in my eyes. I get into my room, and punch the wall, hard. I don't care that it leaves a hole, they'll fix it while I'm at rehab camp. Rehab camp. I cry all night, then pack my bags. My mom drives me to the airport the next morning, and as I board my plane, I wonder, Will this change my future? I think, Will I be better? This could be a new hope, so I'm ready. I dare them to push me. I'll push back. Hard.
AN: How was that? I've had this idea for a few days now, and yes, I will be doing a story, all with different addictions, for all 22 characters. Please R&R! More to come soon!