‹ Prequel: ***ing Hypocrites
Anorexia is Beauty is Terror.
make your ribs crack
You could see staff line thin fingers flipping through the records. You knew what she did to herself. Judging by the full fragility of the bones, shakingshakingshaking from next to no blood flowing through, it was easy to say that she was just working towards her beauty goals.
But what you knew she didn’t know was what a terror it was to feel the pounds slip from your body, make your ribs crack with each breath from the pure strain of the marrow-filled structures. She wasn’t far enough into thinspiration or she’d be wearing sweatpants and the loose, bagging clothes on this freezing day, feeling unsatisfied with the fat that bunched at her hips just as yours did.
You could see the confidence still in her gait as she slipped to the counter, taking out her wallet and awaiting you to ring up the lovely piece of vinyl. You could still see the luster within her hair and the just barely there tint of her cheeks, not the gaunt frame of a skull that you had known. She couldn’t recognize what was right in her face as she studied her nails, which sort of amused her.
Perhaps she was healing, you wondered as you bagged and offered a bleach blonde’s smile and wishes for a Merry Christmas. A fast glance at the clock alerted you to the time, though the second hand suddenly went out of whack and you had to reach up and flick the device. Your voice called out that you were heading home, getting a fast response from the manager that he’d heard you, and you quickly dashed into the snow while pulling your peacoat around tighter.
You watched the collarbones of those girls with smiles and laughter written in their faces, the terror and beauty of everything still not registering in their minds like it had in yours. You knew what would happen to them all; they’d die and get fat. You’d die young and thin and beautiful, right?
But what you knew she didn’t know was what a terror it was to feel the pounds slip from your body, make your ribs crack with each breath from the pure strain of the marrow-filled structures. She wasn’t far enough into thinspiration or she’d be wearing sweatpants and the loose, bagging clothes on this freezing day, feeling unsatisfied with the fat that bunched at her hips just as yours did.
You could see the confidence still in her gait as she slipped to the counter, taking out her wallet and awaiting you to ring up the lovely piece of vinyl. You could still see the luster within her hair and the just barely there tint of her cheeks, not the gaunt frame of a skull that you had known. She couldn’t recognize what was right in her face as she studied her nails, which sort of amused her.
Perhaps she was healing, you wondered as you bagged and offered a bleach blonde’s smile and wishes for a Merry Christmas. A fast glance at the clock alerted you to the time, though the second hand suddenly went out of whack and you had to reach up and flick the device. Your voice called out that you were heading home, getting a fast response from the manager that he’d heard you, and you quickly dashed into the snow while pulling your peacoat around tighter.
You watched the collarbones of those girls with smiles and laughter written in their faces, the terror and beauty of everything still not registering in their minds like it had in yours. You knew what would happen to them all; they’d die and get fat. You’d die young and thin and beautiful, right?