Pathetic Loser Chapter 2: Goal Number One, a wintergirls fanfic

Except that didn't happen. Not really. Only in my day dreams would I tell my "parents" that I wouldn't go back to that place. To the place where dreams of size zero become lost and crazies are called "eating disordered visitors". Where doctors don't exist, only professional mental stabilizers and pretty little pills. I won't go back there. At least not today.

No, I stay behind the thin barrier of dry wall and paint. It's the only thing that can protect me now. Slowly, as not to make a sound, my legs carry my up, up, and away, to the top of the staircase. They move to my door, my hands reach out and grasp the door. They pull it open, and after the thing that is my body walks in, they close it behind me. I crawl into my bed, and pick up my knitting. I'm running out of yarn.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

I should pick some more up. Maybe this time I'll buy blue. Frozen-ice blue, like the color you get when you're suffocating beneath the water and you keep falling deeper and deeper under the friendly lake water. Suddenly I find myself not able to breathe, but I keep knitting. That's how I breathe now. I'm trying to make a hat, but the stitches dropped from angry fights with myself and the double stitched from not paying attention make it look more like a pile of squiggly strings colliding with each other.

Dr. Matchbrooke, the all-important adult-only psychologist, walks in. She pretends to understand me. I pretend to be asleep. She can't tell the difference between real

and fake.

She's used to people telling them all of their secrets. She's to used to not telling them hers. The kitting in my hands is removed, and put to my side. We sit/lay in silence, her to awkward to say anything else, me still in my cocoon of tangled strings and knitted lies. She gets up off my bed. I don't know what happened next. I fell asleep.

-------------

I wake up sometime in the night. The whole house/neighborhood/world is asleep. Everythingbody besides me. I just can't seem to fit in. My feet carry me to the hallway, down the stairway, through the kitchenette, to the backdoor, I grab my keys, and into the garage I go. I climb onto my car (90,000 miles, but very cheap). It takes me down to the 24-hour drug store 15 minutes away, but it can't take me in. And that means that I have to get up. I don't want to.

The doors open on their own, and I walk on auto-pilot to the scales. I find one of the killer accurate digital scales not even bothering to look at the price. I have three years worth of 7 dollars an hour in baby-sitting money. I walk down all the other aisles, trying to find the laxatives. The last time I checked I was almost out. My total was fifty dollars.

On my way home a blinking light turns on. I don't know what it's for. I should ask Alex. I really miss him. Maybe tomorrow I'll go and visit him. But I can't let him see me like this. Or at least I shouldn't. But I shouldn't even be seeing him, though.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

My car doesn't take me home. It takes me to a park I used to go to when I was little. Legs that are the size of logs step in front of me. I think that they're mine. I'm carried to the swings. They're my favorite part. I swing until I can't see the ground any more. I swing until I can't think about anything. I swing untill all I see is Alex's face. I swing until the sun comes up. I don't think anyone knows where I am. Maybe some creeper will come out of the bushes any second now and grab me. I won't be able to fight him, I'm too weak. He'll chop my body up into bite-sized pieces, and then when some soccer mom letting her kids roam free will discover my disembodied head and scream. They won't even know it's me until they look at the dental records of all the missing little girls of America, the beautiful.

That doesn't happen. I arrive home before anyone is awake. Maybe I really am dead, and this is just my ghost. Somehow I get myself back into my bed, and go back into dream-land. Nobody can hurt me there.

By the time I wake up again, it's almost noon. Somebody is singing faintly in the kitchen, and I smell eggs. They make me want to vomit. The scale I bought last night creeps out of its bag and into my bathroom. Weight must always be measured on a flat surface. My feet step on it. The numbers fly across the screen. 99.0 pounds. Goal number one is achieved.

My head feel like I just drank a bottle of champagne. I'm flying on satin clouds and don't have a care in the world. I'm standing on Goal number one.