An Imperfect Perfectionist
Chapter Two
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"Sometimes perfection can be, it can be perfect hell, perfect…."
--Jack's Mannequin, Bruised
Monica pulled her robe down, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Imperfect. That was all she saw. A million little imperfections that all added up to the fact that she, the biggest perfectionist in the world, was imperfect. How could she ever expect her life to be anywhere near perfect when she, herself, was anything but? Running her fingers over her stomach, she scowled at her reflection; her stomach could be flatter. She continued running her fingers over her body, this time up to her arms. Flabby arms. Round face. Collarbones. Her collarbones could be more prominent.
Sighing, Monica dropped her robe completely, kicking the scale out from under the sink with her right foot. She held her breath, eyes squeezed shut she as she stepped onto it, exhaling completely as she attempted to rid her lungs of as much air as physically possible.
105.
That's the number she would write at the top of the page for the day in the small notebook she had shoved in the back of her drawer in the bathroom, where she wrote down every calorie she took in, as well as any calorie she got rid of by working out. That number wasn't small enough, could not possibly get small enough. If she went running and didn't drink anything before weighing herself again, though, it may be just a bit smaller. And, if she was alone for enough of the day and wasn't forced into eating by being around her friends at any meal-time, that number would again be smaller by tomorrow.
There was a very small chance that the next time she stripped completely naked (clothes add weight) and stepped onto the scale would be tomorrow morning, though. She kept promising herself that would happen, but it never did. She would surely go for a run and be back in this exact same position, probably hating herself just as much, in about an hour. And then, the shower would be running, so she could allow herself to break down and cry in her self-loathing.
For the moment, though, she scribbled the number on the notepad, pulled her robe back on, and once again pushed the scale under the sink before heading to her room, planning on getting dressed for a run.
Running was every bit as addictive as the rest of this.
She would run until she felt she was going to pass out, then turn around and walk home, grabbing a water bottle and heading straight to the bathroom before she could drink any of it. She would peel off her layers of running clothes, step onto the scale, cringe at the small change, and then down the bottle of water before stepping into the steaming hot shower. If anyone interrupted that routine, she would most likely ignore them, which was why she woke up so early. If she started before anyone else was up, she would most likely finish, and could cut up some fruit for breakfast and be eating that and drinking coffee when the others came in for breakfast. That gave her the cover of eating—and it was all about appearances.
That's what it was all about, right? Appearances….
Right.
~.~
I wrote this chapter at the same time I wrote the first one, months ago, and I completely intended on updating sooner, but got caught up in Recovering the Satellites. And, in all honesty…this fic is rather personal to me, and I thought I could take writing it, but it turned out I needed to take a step back and a deep breath before continuing.
Step back, deep breath….
Yes, I will be updating this eventually. Yes, it will have some Mondler. And I will get to the parts of the storyline that don't exist only in Monica's head.
Reviews are appreciated :) I'll probably only continue this if people are still interested, if not, I'll pursue another story….