CAUTION: GRAPHIC and probably NOT SUITED FOR YOUNG READERS
(This won't happen again, promise.)
Flash fiction: Write fast and don't edit. Those are the rules.
A special one for Eating disorder awareness week.
Time froze.
My hand dropped as my head floated towards the ceiling. I was in my own world now. My own dizzy, heart-pounding, lifeless, fascinating world.
"More," the voice said, "You must do more."
One more. Colors spin around me as I drop once again, stare into the porcelain altar. My knees drop as my nails graze the back of my throat. More. More comes out. Acid, blood. More and more.
I reach up to the counter and grab a washcloth, wiping my face and fingers. I must stand before the moment is over. I hold myself up against the bathtub, and straighten my knees as the room does somersaults around me.
"Good," says the voice, "You have done very well today. You are not a failure."
I am not a failure. I take a step, fall onto the pink floor mat. The moment is over. I must clean up now, before my parents come home.
Tomorrow I won't eat, I promise. Tomorrow I will be good. I will not fall. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
"You better not eat," the voice growls, "Or you will look like your dad. You could be the next girl sumo wrestler."
I don't want to be a sumo wrestler. I don't want to be fat. I will not eat tomorrow.
My hand dropped as my head floated towards the ceiling. I was in my own world now. My own dizzy, heart-pounding, lifeless, fascinating world.
"More," the voice said, "You must do more."
One more. Colors spin around me as I drop once again, stare into the porcelain altar. My knees drop as my nails graze the back of my throat. More. More comes out. Acid, blood. More and more.
I reach up to the counter and grab a washcloth, wiping my face and fingers. I must stand before the moment is over. I hold myself up against the bathtub, and straighten my knees as the room does somersaults around me.
"Good," says the voice, "You have done very well today. You are not a failure."
I am not a failure. I take a step, fall onto the pink floor mat. The moment is over. I must clean up now, before my parents come home.
Tomorrow I won't eat, I promise. Tomorrow I will be good. I will not fall. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
"You better not eat," the voice growls, "Or you will look like your dad. You could be the next girl sumo wrestler."
I don't want to be a sumo wrestler. I don't want to be fat. I will not eat tomorrow.
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