Dry

I take them dry.

So I can feel them crawl down my throat and create a lump in my oesophagus – a reminder of mommy dearest to hold with me until they dissolve and fall into my empty stomach. She pats me on the back and presses another into my palm – this one's pink and chalky. “Come on,” she coos into my ear.“One more.” I swallow. I don't think about it because it doesn't occur to me that all of the other little girls aren't doing this right now with their mothers, feet planted on the sticky kitchen floor, the cooing sounding in their ears.

“Good girl,” she says, patting me on my head and yanking slightly at my dark ponytail. “Good girl,” she repeats, barely audible.

I am ten years old and my belly bulges over my pants. I am too stocky and my arms are too thick. These obstructions create so much turmoil in my mothers brain that she can't sleep at night and the stress from the deprivation makes her quit her job. She gets angry when she sees me, her reminder, and yells at my older sister. She's twelve, she can take it.

I don't get angry when I see her, but I feel a searing pain in my gut. The familiar feeling of all of those diet pills mingling. The chalky ones dissolve and stick to the fat in my stomach and the capsules burst open and hike up my metabolism and make it hard to breathe normal.

She gives me a glass of water and watches me until the cup is empty before pushing me into my room for my rest. I wait for the click of the doorknob signalling my step-fathers arrival from his late nights at work to close my eyes and I never dream.