Fat Girl
you deserve it
It’s her fault she’s fat, she supposes.
Unlike other girls her age, she isn’t one to venture off to the unknown lands of the gym, finding herself much more comfortable residing in her fortress: the couch. And so, while the food forces down her mouth and the television screen constantly flickers, it becomes her relief.
Gyms are just much too public, just another predicament that she’d rather not find herself in.
Oh look, Fat Girl’s sweating like the pig she is! Not even Jesus could burn off all those pounds.
The gym’s an awful place, really.
“Rachel can sing so well, I get goose bumps,” the one with hair of fire speaks up, admiration weaved into her voice.
While others their age are off pounding the drinks or getting high as a kite or falling in love, the odd pair is here. Watching an the television with a bowl of popcorn in hand, the odd pair is here.
“Yeah, she is really pretty.”
She burns away on the elliptical every day, of course she is.
A buzz vibrates against Monica's leg, and she is surprised to see that her phone was doing a task that it never does: receiving a call.
Curious, she advances towards the bathroom, phone in hand. “Just going to the bathroom,” she tells her friend, who is much too consumed by the screen to care.
The door closes and she finds herself in a comfortable silence. The phone reaches her ear and she awaits the mysterious call.
“Monica?” the voice drawls, concluding with a chime-like giggle. Voices in the background mimick the first.
“Who is this?” she asks, ultimate confusion mingling in her stomach along with the popcorn kernels and skittles.
“It’s me, of course, your best friend! Bianca! Honestly, who else would call you?” her tone is chipper but the snide undertone is clear, one that seems to seep through the receiver and drip onto Monica's fingers like the golden butter already staining her skin.
“Why are you calling me?” Again with a question, this one tough to force out passed the lump forming so merrily in her throat. The bathroom walls seem to spin around her.
“C’mon, let’s hang out! If there are enough people around, I’d doubt that you’d eat us all! What fun!”
The words seemed to materialize, throwing her a wonderful punch in the gut. The tears spring to the occasion as well.
“I have to go,” she murmurs, pressing the button with more force than intended.
A turn of her head and she is met with the mirror, that god-awful mirror. So gladly did it portray her face, the salty tears trickling down her freckled cheeks and onto her too-wide neck.
Watch yourself cry, Fat Girl. You deserve it.
Unlike other girls her age, she isn’t one to venture off to the unknown lands of the gym, finding herself much more comfortable residing in her fortress: the couch. And so, while the food forces down her mouth and the television screen constantly flickers, it becomes her relief.
Gyms are just much too public, just another predicament that she’d rather not find herself in.
Oh look, Fat Girl’s sweating like the pig she is! Not even Jesus could burn off all those pounds.
The gym’s an awful place, really.
“Rachel can sing so well, I get goose bumps,” the one with hair of fire speaks up, admiration weaved into her voice.
While others their age are off pounding the drinks or getting high as a kite or falling in love, the odd pair is here. Watching an the television with a bowl of popcorn in hand, the odd pair is here.
“Yeah, she is really pretty.”
She burns away on the elliptical every day, of course she is.
A buzz vibrates against Monica's leg, and she is surprised to see that her phone was doing a task that it never does: receiving a call.
Curious, she advances towards the bathroom, phone in hand. “Just going to the bathroom,” she tells her friend, who is much too consumed by the screen to care.
The door closes and she finds herself in a comfortable silence. The phone reaches her ear and she awaits the mysterious call.
“Monica?” the voice drawls, concluding with a chime-like giggle. Voices in the background mimick the first.
“Who is this?” she asks, ultimate confusion mingling in her stomach along with the popcorn kernels and skittles.
“It’s me, of course, your best friend! Bianca! Honestly, who else would call you?” her tone is chipper but the snide undertone is clear, one that seems to seep through the receiver and drip onto Monica's fingers like the golden butter already staining her skin.
“Why are you calling me?” Again with a question, this one tough to force out passed the lump forming so merrily in her throat. The bathroom walls seem to spin around her.
“C’mon, let’s hang out! If there are enough people around, I’d doubt that you’d eat us all! What fun!”
The words seemed to materialize, throwing her a wonderful punch in the gut. The tears spring to the occasion as well.
“I have to go,” she murmurs, pressing the button with more force than intended.
A turn of her head and she is met with the mirror, that god-awful mirror. So gladly did it portray her face, the salty tears trickling down her freckled cheeks and onto her too-wide neck.
Watch yourself cry, Fat Girl. You deserve it.
♠ ♠ ♠
HIATUS IS OVER, Y'ALL.Excited? I kind of am.
and this time it's over-over.
this story be on the good fiction list, yo!
:)
don't be a silent reader, s'il vous plait! every single comment has a boatload of appreciation from moi!