Count
1/1
1
2
3
4
She's counting. She's staring in the mirror at her pale, wet skin, a towel wrapped around her...and she's counting. Counting the ribs that protrude through her skin.
5
6
7
8
Eight of them, staring back at her. She sees them, she really does. She sees her bony body, skin clinging to the undersides of bones...and she calls herself fat.
Fat, yet able to see half the bones in her body because there's not enough fat to cover them.
She can see the fat. A little glob of it, centered on her flat stomach. The image goes in her eyes. It surges through her retinas, heading straight towards her brain to deliver the evidence that actually, she is not fat. She's desperately in need of some fat.
But somewhere on the way, the image bounces inside some funhouse mirrors. Somewhere on the way, it becomes distorted. So distorted, that the image the brain reads is exactly the opposite of what she is; a fat girl.
Her brother is knocking on the door, asking if she could kindly hurry the hell up and move her fatass down to the dinner table, because he's hungry.
Her stomach collapses in on itself at the mention of food...even as she absorbs the name of fatass. It settles over her body like a shroud, a straightjacket. One drawn extra tight, just so everyone can see her fat.
She is sitting at the dinner table, damp hair cascading down her shoulders. A cold fork is in her hand. She doesn't quite remember how she got there, to be honest. A lot of things are a blur to her now. It's...normal. Just like her cold body temperature, her weak limbs, and the pain in her stomach.
"Honey." They're talking to her. Leering at her, mocking her with their loaded forks and full plates. With their nicknames. Honey is a natural sugar. Sugar is in candy. Candy has wrappers. Wrappers like the ones that fluttered around her two weeks ago as she lay, too full to crumple their nutrition panels. Instead, she turned them over. Turned them over and let them sear their calorie count into the carpet. She could count each garish one…
1
2
3
4
Do they know she ate? Did they find the wrappers in the garage, where she had flung them in self disgust? They just kept coming, and coming...
5
6
7
8
Eight candy bars, leaking sugar into her starved body. She can still taste them...
A voice inside her head pokes her, nudges her, screams at her. She cowers, as it tells her that she was perfect. Was.
It asks her if she feels that little blob of fat on her tummy. And when she nods, it nods too. Scary nod, and she cowers. Those candy bars are that fat! It rails, on and on.
While in the real world; in her background, her parents continue to talk. "Honey, we're worried about you.."
She gets up, shoving her chair violently into the table. Cuts her parents off, and she's gone. Out into the cold night.
She's stumbling, she's falling...she's hungry.
Her body is folding and collapsing in on itself, and all the deep breaths she's sucking in aren't helping.
Hoarse whimpers are escaping her, and suddenly she's lying on her back, on the dewy grass...and she can't get up.
And the voice in her head is still screaming at her, still making her hyperaware of the lump of fat on her stomach, still playing back her brother's word. Over and over again, and it won't stop
Her parents are at the window, now. They're still worried. But from here, what she's doing looks normal. A lot of what she's been doing lately seemed normal to them. Spending excessive hours in the bathroom, eating separately from them, obsessing over model photos in magazines...
She's counting the stars now, trying to block the voice, the pain, the dizziness away.
1
2
3
4
They wink in her field of vision, as everything grows darker. And it's like she's flying up, up and away...closer and closer to them
5
6
7
8
Eight stars. Eight candy bars, eight ribs...
Eight months of self loathing. Eight days of not eating.
Nothing counted in eights...nothing counted in anything, can measure she has meant to this world and what this world could have gained from her.
And the last thing she hears as her eyes flutter closed is the voice, calling her fat.
The voice, and then the chime. The chime is soft, soothing. It removes her pain...and the funhouse mirrors, the distortion. She sees herself as she truly is.
And in that moment before she dies, she is finally at peace.
****
Count them. Can you count them? Can you count all the girls like her? All the girls with funhouse mirrors in their eyes and hunger in their hearts?
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
There aren’t just eight. There are more, so many more. And there will continue to be more, untilwe do something. Until we take away the magazines that build the funhouse mirrors. Until we take away the standards that drive so many out of this world.
You are beautiful. Yes, you. Beautiful just the way you are. And that’s something the world has forgotten.
Don’t ever let yourself forget.
2
3
4
She's counting. She's staring in the mirror at her pale, wet skin, a towel wrapped around her...and she's counting. Counting the ribs that protrude through her skin.
5
6
7
8
Eight of them, staring back at her. She sees them, she really does. She sees her bony body, skin clinging to the undersides of bones...and she calls herself fat.
Fat, yet able to see half the bones in her body because there's not enough fat to cover them.
She can see the fat. A little glob of it, centered on her flat stomach. The image goes in her eyes. It surges through her retinas, heading straight towards her brain to deliver the evidence that actually, she is not fat. She's desperately in need of some fat.
But somewhere on the way, the image bounces inside some funhouse mirrors. Somewhere on the way, it becomes distorted. So distorted, that the image the brain reads is exactly the opposite of what she is; a fat girl.
Her brother is knocking on the door, asking if she could kindly hurry the hell up and move her fatass down to the dinner table, because he's hungry.
Her stomach collapses in on itself at the mention of food...even as she absorbs the name of fatass. It settles over her body like a shroud, a straightjacket. One drawn extra tight, just so everyone can see her fat.
She is sitting at the dinner table, damp hair cascading down her shoulders. A cold fork is in her hand. She doesn't quite remember how she got there, to be honest. A lot of things are a blur to her now. It's...normal. Just like her cold body temperature, her weak limbs, and the pain in her stomach.
"Honey." They're talking to her. Leering at her, mocking her with their loaded forks and full plates. With their nicknames. Honey is a natural sugar. Sugar is in candy. Candy has wrappers. Wrappers like the ones that fluttered around her two weeks ago as she lay, too full to crumple their nutrition panels. Instead, she turned them over. Turned them over and let them sear their calorie count into the carpet. She could count each garish one…
1
2
3
4
Do they know she ate? Did they find the wrappers in the garage, where she had flung them in self disgust? They just kept coming, and coming...
5
6
7
8
Eight candy bars, leaking sugar into her starved body. She can still taste them...
A voice inside her head pokes her, nudges her, screams at her. She cowers, as it tells her that she was perfect. Was.
It asks her if she feels that little blob of fat on her tummy. And when she nods, it nods too. Scary nod, and she cowers. Those candy bars are that fat! It rails, on and on.
While in the real world; in her background, her parents continue to talk. "Honey, we're worried about you.."
She gets up, shoving her chair violently into the table. Cuts her parents off, and she's gone. Out into the cold night.
She's stumbling, she's falling...she's hungry.
Her body is folding and collapsing in on itself, and all the deep breaths she's sucking in aren't helping.
Hoarse whimpers are escaping her, and suddenly she's lying on her back, on the dewy grass...and she can't get up.
And the voice in her head is still screaming at her, still making her hyperaware of the lump of fat on her stomach, still playing back her brother's word. Over and over again, and it won't stop
Her parents are at the window, now. They're still worried. But from here, what she's doing looks normal. A lot of what she's been doing lately seemed normal to them. Spending excessive hours in the bathroom, eating separately from them, obsessing over model photos in magazines...
She's counting the stars now, trying to block the voice, the pain, the dizziness away.
1
2
3
4
They wink in her field of vision, as everything grows darker. And it's like she's flying up, up and away...closer and closer to them
5
6
7
8
Eight stars. Eight candy bars, eight ribs...
Eight months of self loathing. Eight days of not eating.
Nothing counted in eights...nothing counted in anything, can measure she has meant to this world and what this world could have gained from her.
And the last thing she hears as her eyes flutter closed is the voice, calling her fat.
The voice, and then the chime. The chime is soft, soothing. It removes her pain...and the funhouse mirrors, the distortion. She sees herself as she truly is.
And in that moment before she dies, she is finally at peace.
****
Count them. Can you count them? Can you count all the girls like her? All the girls with funhouse mirrors in their eyes and hunger in their hearts?
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
There aren’t just eight. There are more, so many more. And there will continue to be more, untilwe do something. Until we take away the magazines that build the funhouse mirrors. Until we take away the standards that drive so many out of this world.
You are beautiful. Yes, you. Beautiful just the way you are. And that’s something the world has forgotten.
Don’t ever let yourself forget.
♠ ♠ ♠
Reviews are always appreciated :)