Rooftops and Seashell Painted Walls

You have to stop this.

Aurora takes a shaky breath, listing her too small arms over her head and resting them on the black tar shingles. They dig into the protruding bones of her back, but she doesn't care.

You can't live like this. You can't. You deserve so much more.

A breeze picks up.

Stringy blonde hair wafts like a wild halo about her thin face. Her pallid lids glide lazily open and her forest green eyes roam the sky. Wispy white clouds nearly disappear into the background of dreary gray.

Please, stop this, please.

In a quick, fluid motion the blonde sits up and snakes her body from the screen less window. Her small feet take her in a well-traveled path towards her bathroom. The door creaks as she slips inside.

You're gorgeous, I swear. You don’t have to do this.

Aurora stares at her reflection in the mirror.

The constant feeling of self-loathing grows more intense inside her, stemming from the pit of her “engorged” stomach. Beads of sweat form on her forehead and her tiny frame trembles.

Don't, please. You're hurting yourself.

With a sharp tilt of her head, slender fingers force their way down her throat. In seconds, her body reacts out of reflex.

The contents of her stomach come up in waves. It burns her throat, her nose. It doesn't matter; she just keeps making herself sick until there's nothing left. And she painfully dry heaves.

Oh, Aurora. Why? Why do you keep doing this?

The flush of the porcelain toilet echoes in the silence of the tiny bathroom. Her body slides to the ground as her arms become too weak to hold her up. She lays limp against the cool floor, her cheek pressed against the tile.

Minutes pass.

As they do so slowly the fixture overhead glares, sending light bouncing across the seashell painted walls. The brightness makes the horrid scene in the tiny bathroom that much more real.