Rush

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Slapslapslap.
My feet are pounding hard against the pavement, the blood gushing from my hip with every step I take.
"Five less pounds by next Wednesday, Nikki," my demons whisperyell.
They push me to go harder, and by the time I get home, it feels like my lungs could burst.
"Hard run, kiddo?" my dad asks.
I nod, too out of breath to say anything.
I head upstairs while Kiara and my father cook dinner. It smells like chicken parm. Too much carbs for me. I guess I'll just have to fake a stomach ache.
I climbed into the cool shower and let the water run over me. I looked down at my body. My ribs were starting to become visible, and my hip bones were sticking out further than they were last week. My collar bone made a small bowl shape right before sliding down to my nearly non-existent chest. I wasn't very pretty, but I guess I wasn't ugly, either. I could just do better. I could be better.
I climbed out of the shower and draped a towel around my ever shrinking frame. I walked into my bedroom and sat on my bed, taking the razor from my nightstand drawer.
I removed the towel from my thighs and looked at the cuts I have been making for the past few years. I added three more long, some what deep ones. It would be a constant reminder to loose enough weight to keep my thighs from rubbing together when I walk.
I went downstairs slowly, partially to feel the stinging and burning of my thighs, and partially to seem sick. I walked right up to my dad.
"I don't feel so well. I think I ran a little too hard. Can I just make myself some tomato soup?" I asked, putting on my best sick voice.
My dad nods, feeling my head.
I water it down some to reduce the number of calories I would be intaking. I set my soup on the table and drank it slowly, allowing the burning hot liquid to scald my mouth and throat. It was the perfect solution. Make it hurt to eat.

When I finished, I went upstairs for the night. "To sleep," I told Dad and Kiara.
Instead of sleeping, I took the professional scale down from my closet. The one that was dead accurate and couldn't be tampered with. I set it down and stepped onto it. I sighed at the number.
109.00. Not good enough. I only went down one and a half pounds since Sunday.
I stuck my feet under my dresser and powered through 500 crunches. By the end of it, my stomach muscles were burning with a desire to rest. I sighed and sat at my desk to finish writing my English essay. Dad came up 20 minutes later. Good thing I put the scale away, he would have asked questions.
"Care for some ice cream?" he asked.
I shook my head. Not only did it have too much calories, but it also happened to be loaded with sugar, which can also make you fat.
"Stomach bug," I tell him, holding my stomach.
He nods.
"Well alright. Get some sleep, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning," he says smiling, as he closes the door.
My stomach growls.
Yes, sleep.
I walk over to my bed and flop into the mountain of soft pillows and blankets and close my eyes, wanting and needing nothing more than to forget the hunger and fall into a world where it doesn't matter, anyways.
Oh, and to be skinny, too.