Hungering for Perfection
By: KitKat411
Author's Notes: Hello, ya'll. I dunno, but I don't think I'm going to post a long Author's Note here, in this chapter. I think I'll let this part take the award for 'The Most Dramatic Chapter in "Hungering for Perfection."'
PS. One thing: I told you so about Chapter Seven. Don't worry, however, this chapter makes sense. However, no matter HOW this chapter ends, there IS AT LEAST another chapter coming.
PPS. One more thing: If you have any story ideas, please let me know.
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Two Months Later…
On December 7th, Franziska woke up, as icy cold as ever. She shivered and pulled the covers tightly around her. As always lately, she had slept for as long as possible. More time sleeping meant less time awake, where she would be tempted to eat.
Speaking of eating, there was a plate of food next to her, sitting on her nightstand. She saw toast and coffee, but they didn't look anything like toast and coffee to her. She had become used to tricking her mind into believing things. Now, she saw the toast as brown cardboard; tasteless and unappealing. The butter on the toast oozed into every crumb, just as all that fat would ooze into every pore of her body. Franziska recoiled from the toast, even while knowing that her little brother made it for her. The only part of the "meal" that appealed to her was the coffee, which she drank gratefully.
Franziska entered the kitchen, where she was stunned to see her little brother sitting at the kitchen table. Franziska moved to leave. What was that foolish fool doing here? He nearly always left before she woke up now.
"Don't you have better things to do then baby-sit me?" She asked him. She sat at the table, directly across from him.
"You didn't eat the toast, Franziska." His words weren't a question, so she didn't answer.
"What is the matter with you, Franziska? You haven't been eating any of the food I lay out for you, and you hide the remains from me." Glaring hard at her, he pulled out bags and bags of plastic Ziploc containers and showed them to her. They were all filled with food, some weeks old and rotting.
"What is the matter with you, Franziska?" He asked her again, losing his temper in what seemed like forever. "For the sake of everything that is holy, look at you! You shiver when it's eighty degrees out, are always wearing several layers, and have more fur then and unshaved dog! You are a walking bag of bones, Franziska."
Franziska looked down. "Fool." She muttered. She wasn't a bag of bones-couldn't he see her? She was so fat, so far from being perfect…
Miles raged on. "You've been in America for nearly three months now, and you still haven't taken a case! You stare out the window all day long, refusing to eat! I haven't heard you whip crack once in the past month!"
Franziska tried to make sense of the words floating around her brain. Her mind felt sluggish, unused.
Miles's words had a ring of truth, however. Franziska hadn't taken a single case in America yet. Prosecuting had just fallen by the wayside; it wasn't important to her anymore. Her importance was now strictly to lose weight. Just a few more pounds…
As for her whip? She hadn't the strength to use it. Her body was too frail, too weak to do much anymore. Her body was now instead covered in fur, which always failed to keep her warm.
She frowned at her imperfections, and said nothing.
Miles, however, took her silence as insolence. Glaring at her, Miles stormed out of the kitchen. "Fine!" He cried, yanking open the front door. "Go starve yourself for all I care! Just die, Franziska, you ungrateful little bitch!" He slammed the door behind him, slamming his door with a deafening BANG, which was followed by a silence as loud as the disruption.
Franziska turned her dull and lifeless eyes toward the door. She wondered vaguely why Miles was so angry. A long time ago, Franziska would have assumed he was pining for her. Now, however, she knew better. Miles still loved Lana; he would never love someone as imperfect as she.
Franziska stood up with great difficulty, and hit her hipbone against the table. Franziska winced. She had received bruises in this apartment in the past four months alone than from her father in fifteen years. "Fool." She said quietly to herself, and smiled. The word reminded her of her past life-her life before bones and bruises.
Franziska shakily walked out of the kitchen. Her head was pounding, her heart was racing, and little sparks were going off in her head. Franziska's limp eyes widened in fear. This had never happened before, the "side-effects" had never before affected her like this. She felt Miles's carpet moving towards her, and she found herself on the floor. The sparks intensified and her heart pounded faster.
"Miles…" she whispered faintly, "I'm…sorry, Miles. I'm sorry I couldn't be perfect for you…"
The everything stopped, and Franziska gratefully fell into the endless black silence.
