They're looking at me. Across the room, from the corners of their eyes, Jessica and Lauren are watching my every move. This is their usual routine. They tire of their typical, vapid conversations, which usually revolve around the sexual lies they tell, and look for something else to entertain themselves with. It's me. It's always me. They're probably talking about my clothes. I don't dress like the other girls at my school. They wear their mass produced t-shirts, expose their breasts, and otherwise, beg for the male attention. I don't want to be mass-produced. I want to be special.

So rather than sit around in a bubblegum pink tank top, or cerulean blue shorts that show off the lower curvatures of my ass, I'm wearing my grandmother's sweater. It smells like her, and it is warm in the December chill, but that's not why I wear it. I wear it because it's baggy. No one will be able to see … see my … see my … … …

Their voices escalate. They want me to hear. They want the satisfaction of knowing they made me cry. But they won't. I refuse to be caught in their net.

I'm watching the clock. The hands are warring against me. Taunting. Teasing. Tempting. Urging. I briefly wonder how I'm able to stand as the bell rings. It's shrill and deafening, and I actually feel myself flinch in response. The two girls next to me notice and start to laugh. It's nothing I haven't heard before, though. They're always laughing at me.

The hallway beyond the classroom door is spinning, and it takes a great effort to walk a straight line. Still, I know I'm wobbling. I can tell in the perplexed stares I receive from the other students. They hurry out of my way, desperate to clear a path for me. They all know me. They all whisper about me. I know they do. I can hear them.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Is she on drugs?"

"She is so weird!"

I ignore them. That's all I can do, after all. I have no strength left. If I were to turn and shout at them, to insist that they mind their own business, I would faint in the middle of the hallway. That would only exacerbate my problems. So I turn the other cheek, denying their cruel words purchase in the soil of my mind, and shuffle to the end of the hall.

The bathroom door all but collapses underneath the weight of my hand, and I hold tightly to the door handle, fearing I might lose the last of my constitution. I am able to just make it into the handicapped stall before my knees give out. The fake marble floor rushes up and crashes against my kneecaps. I cry out in pain, knowing that I will have a bruise in the morning, but I don't care. As I rip open my backpack, I find the reason behind all the torment, the cause of my struggle.

A large, ripe orange.

In sixty seconds, I will peel off the outer coating and take a timid bite. Not too much, just enough to sate the beast inside me. I know how to wait, how to put off the daily habit that so many people tend to mindlessly. It's a talent. I'm proud of my ability.

I close my eyes and inhale. I smell the sweet citrus, and it sets my body on fire. My mouth starts to water. I have longed for this moment all day. This is my reward, the accolade for my triumph. I don't have to wait much longer.

Not wanting to jump the gun, I open my notebook. I received my progress report today. I don't know why I choose to look at it. I know what it will say. I'm a good student. No. I am a phenomenal student. I have to be. It's the only way to keep the others away. I can't have them prying, trying to understand. They won't. They never will. They still try, though. I hate that. I hate that I have to lie. Liars make me sick. I have to lie, though. I have to say I ate. I have to say that I didn't lose any more weight.

The bathroom door opens, and my hands close reflexively over my juicy prize. I curl up against the toilet, hoping to become invisible. Two sets of footsteps echo, followed by voices. I do not recognize them. They chit chat momentarily, talking about things that do not interest me, such as spending time with friends, dates, and cars.

I don't have friends. Not really, anyway. I have people who think I am their next charity project, those who want to gawk and poke at "the freak," and then, there's Angela.

The strange girls leave the restroom. There is silence before the door pushes open again. I breathe out a sigh of relief as a timid, familiar voice calls out, "Hello?"

"Hello," I respond calmly.

Angela is like me. She hides away, too. We would take one another's secret to the grave. We don't speak of it, though. We don't share tips or recipes as the other girls do. What we have belongs to us and us alone. I hear her enter the stall next to mine. This is the closest to an actual conversation that we will ever have. The silence that stretches on is bloated with curiosities. I only know her name because of the monogrammed name on her book bag. To be honest, I don't even know what Angela looks like.

It's almost time. I start to peel the orange. I can hear Angela struggling with some kind of plastic packaging. I wonder what she has. Potato chips? Oreos? Some kind of candy? Merely thinking of the fattening treats makes me quiver. I wonder if it's the same feeling Jessica and Lauren got the first time they found a pornographic website. I have heard them talking about it. They're addicted, and they don't even realize it.

Am I trembling? Yes, but not because I am weak. I'm excited. This is the most stimulation I get these days. I detest school; I abhor the hormonal ocean that I have been forced into, and the fact that I am required to wear a mask every day. When will it end?

I glance at my watch. My mother will be waiting for me in the parking lot. She and I have a tenuous relationship. It's been this way since Thanksgiving. I hate that holiday. Whoever decided to create a national holiday dedicated to gluttony should have been killed.

Every year, I try to get out of it. It's all the same, after all. Mom and Aunt Sue serving the food, shoveling more and more on my plate, regardless of how many times I tell them to stop. There was this, this gravy … this turkey gravy in this large, sterling silver bowl. It was disgusting. I saw how it was slick with fat, I mean, oily globules of fat.

Each time I tried to pull away, to sit in the other room, Mom would say, "Take some gravy! Take some turkey! More mashed potatoes! More stuffing! More butter! More cranberry sauce! More of this! More of that!"

More. More. More. More. More.

Thanksgiving, two years ago, was the first time I stuck my finger down my throat. As I turned the lock on the bathroom door, I instinctively knew what to do. It felt so good, so right. I was safe, protected.

Since last month's incident, when I practically stabbed my cousin with a fork when he tried to give me more, Mom's watched me like a hawk. Not that I could blame her. I went from 126 pounds to 120, to 115, to 109. She started asking what was "going on," was I "on a diet or something," was I "trying to starve myself?"

Last night, she barged into my room, fouling up the air with her cigarette, and she took hold of my sweater. She pulled it tight and seeing the shape of my body, I freaked out. I screamed at her to leave me alone, to not touch me. I hate it when people touch me. It's not a phobia, I just … don't like it.

As of today, I weigh 93 pounds. I did this morning, anyway. I've had a diet coke. Four cans of diet coke. So I know I'm heavier. I hate running to the bathroom a dozen times a day, my stomach bloating. I hate that people can see it. It looks like I'm, you know, going to have a baby, pregnant or something. Oh no. I'm never going to do that. I don't want to be a breeder. Another nameless female, pushing out another nameless human. Not special.

It's time. I carefully finish peeling the orange. With a calculated, careful maneuver, I pull off a sliver. The juice drips down my wrist, and for a moment, I get aroused. The deprivation of nourishment can do that sometimes. I am always thinking of this. This moment. This joy. This beauty. It's like a fire. It hurts. The inside of my mouth is on fire with want. The beast wants to tear into the orange. It wants to go find more food, possibly a buffet. It wants to eat and eat, until I am as big as the checkout girl at the supermarket. She has to use a wheelchair. I know. I've seen it. That's what they want me to be. I won't be that. I would rather die than be that.

The tiny piece of orange bursts in my mouth, electrifying the dormant taste buds. I lean back and enjoy the pure delight of the taste on my lips. I know I shouldn't, but I slip another piece into my mouth. I'm in heaven. I can feel something unravel inside of me, a knot loosens. I am free. I hear a tiny thump on the bathroom wall, and I know it's Angela. She's feeling what I am feeling. We share this moment every day. Our own little world.

The happiness is over abruptly as my cell phone starts to ring. I glare at it and curse myself for not remembering to turn off the ringer. I hate being interrupted. This is my time. I dedicate hours to school and family, why can I not get a few moments to myself?

I answer, "What."

"Where are you?" My mother's voice demands. "I've been waiting for almost twenty minutes!"

Has it been that long? Time slips by so easily when I'm in here.

"I'm coming," I snap, ending the call with an angry grunt. A bit of strength has returned. I think I can make it to the parking lot. Here's hoping I can make it to the parking lot.

I gather my belongings, wrapping up the unfinished orange and placing it reverently in the upper pouch of my backpack. After flushing the toilet for appearances, I exit the stall and head into the hallway. I don't say goodbye to Angela. Just like everything else, our goodbyes are silent. It may seem odd and strange, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

I walk steadily, one foot in front of the other, my head down, trying to blend into my surroundings—trying to be anything but what I am. The student body steps out of my way effortlessly, allowing me forward in my own world. They have grown to understand the repercussions for stepping in, for hindering those of us who march to a different tune. Then again, maybe they just don't care. Whatever. It doesn't matter, I suppose.

The front doors to the school loom ahead of me, and I am already tensing. The main hallway is one of Jessica and Lauren's hunting grounds. It is there that they first honed their bullying skills, cornering unsuspecting freshman or sophomores, picking on them for anything. Clothes, makeup, or the lack of those, they don't care. They are merciless vultures, and as a rotting piece of meat, I have learned to just let them have their fun.

As I pass by the cafeteria, I notice one of the posters and smirk. It is that ridiculous propaganda, decorated with anthropomorphic fruit, and in jolly, vibrant letters it says, "You are what you eat." I pause and regard the image with distaste, and I shook my head. You are what you eat; well, if that's true, then I am nothing.

I'm dawdling, and I know it.

I skim by the counselor's office, putting an extra hitch in my step as I notice Mrs. Cope locking her door. She's been breathing down my neck this week, trying to get me to talk to her, to open up to her. The problem is that she is so damn nice. If she were haughty and self-righteous like my Pre-Cal teacher, then I wouldn't have a problem telling her to shove her fake concern up her old, elderly ass. However, since she's basically my grandmother reincarnated, I can't not be nice to her. I hate it, so I avoid her.

As I pass her, I can hear her say my name, but I act like I didn't hear. Do I feel guilty? Kind of. Will I let it stop me? Hell no.

I turn the last corner and am somewhat relieved to see that neither Jessica nor Lauren are lurking. That only serves to make me more nervous. Where are they? What are they up to? I decide that it's not important, and I skitter across the twenty or so feet separating me from the outside world. It's bittersweet. I don't want to see my mother anymore than I want to see Jessica and Lauren.

I'm almost out the door when I hear it, the familiar cackle that belongs to Lauren. Seconds later, her laughter is followed by Jessica's. They're coming. I panic, and for some unknown reason, I pull back inside. I cower behind the massive trashcan, an easy feat for my tiny frame, and I watch as the two girls round the corner.

"Did you see her face?" Jessica squeals, shaking her head so hard that her curly hair swirls around her face. Her cheeks are red, flushed. "What a spazz!"

"I know!" Lauren replies. "Why do they let freaks like her go to school with us normal people?"

I am waiting for them to pass. Judging by the direction they're walking, I'm willing to bet they're heading to the football field. Jessica's boyfriend is the quarterback, so it wouldn't be surprising. I had just breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that they had not seen me, when they suddenly stop.

"Let's see what she has in here!" Lauren says excitedly. "Maybe there's some money."

"Not likely," Jessica sneers. "Have you seen what she wears?"

I peer out from around the trashcan. What is wrong with me? Why didn't I leave when I had the opportunity? There's a flicker of curiosity, though. I want to see what the vultures have snatched from the innocent. I peer around. Cautiously. Carefully. Quietly.

My eyes fall on something familiar. It's a teal book bag, mass-produced, probably from some department store. That's not what is holding my attention, though. The name "Angela" is monogrammed to the front in a bright, neon pink. A sinking feeling rips through my stomach as they pull the zipper open and dump the contents on the floor, ready to divide up the spoils.

No. This can't happen. What can I do, though? I'm significantly smaller, I've never been in a fight, and there are two of them. I hate to think of Angela's privacy being invaded, but how can I help?

And then, it happens.

"What the fuck is this?" Jessica says, emphasizing each word. She pulls out a Tupperware container. From where I am sitting, I can see tiny, plastic bags, each labeled with words I cannot read. I don't need to read them. "Oh my god. You have to see this! What a freak!"

I see red. It's not that they have stolen from someone I, on some level, care about. I've been through that. It's not that they are insulting Angela, and by proxy, me. It's the fact that they are invading something. They are attempting to annex my world. They are at the gates, trying to storm my white castle of perfection. I understand that people like them are a part of every school. I have grown to accept that. What I cannot accept, though, is a blatant violation of personal space. Watching their disgusting, filthy hands clawing at something that has taken Angela hours, maybe days, it makes me furious.

I find strength that I have never known. Rationality abandons me, as does any shred of morality and decency. I am not a girl confronting two thieves; I am a dragon, sworn to protect the gates of a pearly white, glistening city. The sanctity and safety of the castle is mine to protect. I unleash a virulent screech, and I take off running toward them. Before they can pinpoint the location of the shriek, I crash into them. Angela's bag and all the contents spill, shooting out in different directions. Desperate to keep her most cherished possession away from the monsters, I push it away with my foot.

Jessica is helping Lauren up, but I am on them again. My weight pushes Jessica forward and she hits her head against a locker. I ignore her and focus on Lauren. She is kicking at me, trying to free herself. A terrified scream comes from her lips. I can hear doors opening, people shouting, footsteps echoing. I only have a short amount of time.

Moments before hands encircle my biceps, I curl my hand into a fist, I grab Lauren by the scruff of her shirt, and I punch her on the bridge of her nose. Pain shoots up hand. I ignore it. I land another punch. There is blood on my knuckles. Lauren is crying. Her tears mix with her blood and smear across her cheeks. I smile down at her. She is bleeding because of me. The victim has become the hunter.

As I am dragged away from her, I lurch forward and grab the plastic box containing Angela's food. I hold it to my chest. I have won. I am victorious.

Please note: If you decided to read this story based on the rating, let me be frank with you. This is not a lemon fest. There will be no smut. Recently, a rating of M has become synonymous with "sex, sex, sex." I don't want anyone to have expectations that I do not intend to meet. This is rated M because this story deals with some very adult themes. That is the perfect segue to my next point. This story is meant for 18+. Obviously, I cannot stop the younger readers from partaking in this story. I will merely ask you to keep your age to yourself. I'm really not meaning to sound like a pretentious ass. I just figured I should get everything out in the first chapter.

I think that's everything. Oh! A couple more things. This is a W.I.P. I don't have all the chapters written. Updates will be sporadic. If you want to 'wait list' me, I'm cool with that. I'm just posting something that's been haunting me. Part of it is based on a dream, and part of it is based on Real Life events. I won't say if it's me or not. I also want to state, I am not using a beta. I do have a vast knowledge of writing, but I am not perfect. I don't want to wait around for someone to edit my work. Considering this character's life is spiraling the drain, it makes sense that the writing be a little crazy. Form = content?

This opening chapter was inspired by a monologue entitled, "The Orange" by Joyce Carrol Oates. Some of the lines used in this this chapter can be found in there. I will provide a link in my profile to this piece. It's a great monologue. I used it for an Oral interpretation competition and received high marks.

I'm going to shut up now. Again, I'm not trying to be a dick. :(