I stare down at the plate set in front of me. I could eat the entire plate and more. I'm really not that hungry. My mom watches me with condescending eyes, her lips press together, the rosy red lipstick too deep for her skin tone. "You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry." I look up at her and place a hand over my stomach, I can feel my stomach extend and press into my hand, the fat bubbling in my hand, spilling from my guts and pressing against the skin, ready to spew out at any moment. "My stomach hurts."
"Bull." Her words echo in my hollow head, then she frowns, "Sorry, I mean… the doctor said you have to eat breakfast."
"I know… it's the. Most. Important. Part. Of. The. Day."
"Just one bite."
"Mom, I really am not hungry."
"Your stomach hurts because you aren't eating."
"I am too eating."
"Prove it then."
I look back at the oatmeal sitting in front of me, a sunny-side up egg sitting on top, but there's nothing sunny about that. The egg – 125 – and oatmeal – 157 – stare up at me with greasy eyes. I pick up my fork and jab at the yolk, which breaks and pours its gewy nastiness across my food. My mom pretends to busy herself, but I can still feel her eyes on me. I take a small forkful of egg and oatmeal, and stick it into my mouth.
"Mom!" Carrie runs into the room, her snow boots clunking against the linoleum floor. "I can't get my coat buttoned! Can you help me?"
She looked between me and my sister, then bent down and buttoned up her coat, "There you go… let's go, you're going to be late." Mom looks back to me, "Keep eating." I'm sure if you stared long enough into her cold eyes you could see the pit of all evil, she says I'm paranoid, I say she's trying to make me fat. She's jealous. Jealous that she can't be as thin as I am.
After they leave the house I stand, and count after the garage door opens and shuts, waiting for the car to be down the street before moving to the garbage disposal and dumping the breakfast down the drain. I turn the water to scalding hot, and flip the switch, watching as the fat disappears. My stomach churns, and I stick my hand under the water, burning the skin as punishment for considering eating.
I walk up the steps, my journey taking longer than normal, each step seeming to get larger and larger until I eventually make it upstairs and pad across to the bathroom. The scale sits beside the toilet, mocking me.
I can't weigh, I'd die if I saw.
I ignore the mirror, beckoning me to look inside its lying reflection. Showing every imperfection – every flaw – every tiny thing I hate about myself – because that's all I can see. My dark eyes tell a story, my hollow cheekbones show the pain I've endured, my hair, escaping and looking as if I'm suffering from cancer, is frizzled and thinning.
My hand goes down my throat routinely, and just like every other time, nothing comes up. My stomach holds back everything, my throat clenches, and my body revolts. Tears form in my eyes because I once again am unable to get rid of the food force-fed to my stomach.
The front door opens, "Sasha!?"
I grumble and close the toilet lid, getting to my feet, "I'll be right down!" I holler and shut the bathroom door, slipping out of my pajamas and pulling the scale into the middle of the floor, same spot as always. "Just have to weigh…" I mutter and step onto the scale.
100.8