I'm Not Sick.
It's just a diet.
I work slowly – gently, carefully, weave my way into your mind like the finest of silks. You never even noticed, did you? Of course you didn’t notice; silly boy. But you should have. Glances at fat people suddenly leaving you sickened and shuddering; how did you not work it out? Fat people – fatfatfat, you included. Look at that stomach. Did you look like that last time you looked? No. No, somehow, I don’t think so. Could’ve been those chips, don’t you think? No – you don’t. You don’t think, and that’s how we’ve gotten ourselves into this predicament. But, don’t worry. I’m here to help you. I’m here to make things better.
Slow start. Don’t complain – it’ll pick up later. Oh, it’ll pick up – and I’ll thank you not to disrespect me. I chose you, you know. You’re special. Do you want my help? Yes? Good. Then listen. You’ll put on your running shoes, now. Take a jacket, you idiot. I don’t care how fast you’ll be running; people are going to get suspicious if you go gallivanting around at night in just a shirt and slacks. God, I don’t know why I bother.
Take it off, now that you’re out. Cold burns more calories. Feet faster; pulse faster still; lungs burning – movemovemove. Not good enough. You’re not good enough, and I know you know. I know you know I know. It’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Eight laps. Eight – is that all you’ve got? Pathetic boy. Do another twelve and maybe I’ll let you off – but today only. See? Not that hard. It hurts? Of course it hurts. Fat is part of you, you know. Fat is the bad part. The impure part. The burn is good. Don’t fucking cut corners! Stop it, you snivelling little rat! Seventeen laps? How many corners did you cut, while you had me distracted? Do them again. All of them! Do. Them. Again. Go!
Sit ups. Now. Don’t get fucking cocky on me; I’m not the one who weighted ninety nine fucking pounds this morning. Eighty? Please. You’ll never get down to eighty. Pathetic – just plain pathetic. Seven. Eight. Nine. I swear to god, if you so much as think about resting, you’re starting them again. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Keep. Fucking. Going.
Finish the sit ups, finish the push ups, and you’re done. Twenty more laps, and that’s it. Scurry home, little boy; run home and collapse into bed. You did good, you did – but it took me a lot of fucking work. And I’d better see ninety seven on those sales, tomorrow, or you’re doubling it. Cruel? Yeah, right. Call me whatever you like, but you know you can’t leave me. You need me. Admit it. You. Need. Me.
Out of bed. Shower, now. Shower – but scale first. Take off those pyjamas. God, look at your thighs. Look at your rolls. You’d think you were eating just as much as before. Ninety seven point four. Do you remember what I said? I said ninety fucking seven! No ifs and no fucking buts, nine seven point oh. You’re going to double it, today, and I swear to god, if I catch you eating, it’s tripled. Pathetic little boy; stop crying. Crying is useless. Everything is useless, unless it burns calories. Go bleed it out or something. God, must you sob so fucking loud? People are going to hear, you know.
Silver to skin, red to tile. Look at the pretty cuts. You can see your flesh. Can you see any fat? It’s gone – all gone. It’s gone from your arms, at least… maybe if you cut your thighs open, it’ll all fall out. Ha. Fat fucking chance. Bleed out some of that disgusting sugar, and bleed out your remorse with it. Get over yourself – it’s your fault you didn’t lose more, not mine. You should have worked harder. Shouldn’t have cut so many corners, now, should you? Cutting corners, cutting wrists – jesus, you’rea failure.
School – walk there. Save your fucking train money. I don’t care how tired you are, you have half a pound to lose. Was it really point four? Maybe you hallucinated. Maybe it was point five. Five, or six, or seven. See? Better safe than sorry. Better safe than fat. Throw your lunch in the bin, and don’t you dare even contemplate taking a bite of that apple. Nothing. No food today – none whatsoever.
Don’t you love the way people look at you? Oh, you’re still fat, mark my words – but you’re losing it. Slowly, but surely. Losing it, haha. You are, aren’t you? You’re practically coming apart at the seams under my fingers. God knows what would happen if I wasn’t holding you together. But I am, aren’t I? I am. I am. Does it make you proud, to turn heads? When those jeans you bought just weeks ago suddenly seem to hang off you like sheets? Look at those pretty bones, little boy. See? See how I help you? You’ll be beautiful in no time.
Run along home – and I mean run; you’ve still got your workout to do. If you don’t fuck me around, you might be home by six. Might. Not that it’d fucking kill you to miss dinner or anything. Jesus. Laps, sit ups, laps, push ups, laps. Run home. Go on! Faster! Key to keyhole, and – are you shaking? Jesus, it was only a couple hours work out. Get over it. Pull up a chair. Relax. Pulse racing? Good, good – still burning calories, you know. Keep the jacket off. No, you’re not cold. Arm down, or they’ll see the marks.
Oh god, spaghetti? You’d better not touch that. You’re not hungry. I don’t care what your mother says, don’t fucking eat it! Carbs. Typical. Eat a little salad. A couple forkfuls of that heinous stuff, maybe. Chew, chew – don’t you dare swallow! How? How what? How am I supposed to know? Just get rid of the goddamn food! Sneeze or cough or spit it out, but if you let it slip down your throat, then you’re doing another five hundred sit ups.
Toilet, now. Fingers down throat, tears to eyes – god, do you ever stop crying? I don’t care how much it hurts. Do you want to be pretty? Do you? Then stop pissing around and puke. It. Up You were the one who swallowed it in the first place. I don’t care if she was watching you, I don’t care if she wouldn’t let you leave – I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care! You’re not good enough, and that’s all there is to it. Good – just like that. Get it all out. Don’t you feel better empty? Makes you feel pretty. Makes you feel thin. Now, back to your room, and get onto those sit ups. Maybe if you do the first five hundred properly, I’ll let you sleep.
Slow start. Don’t complain – it’ll pick up later. Oh, it’ll pick up – and I’ll thank you not to disrespect me. I chose you, you know. You’re special. Do you want my help? Yes? Good. Then listen. You’ll put on your running shoes, now. Take a jacket, you idiot. I don’t care how fast you’ll be running; people are going to get suspicious if you go gallivanting around at night in just a shirt and slacks. God, I don’t know why I bother.
Take it off, now that you’re out. Cold burns more calories. Feet faster; pulse faster still; lungs burning – movemovemove. Not good enough. You’re not good enough, and I know you know. I know you know I know. It’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Eight laps. Eight – is that all you’ve got? Pathetic boy. Do another twelve and maybe I’ll let you off – but today only. See? Not that hard. It hurts? Of course it hurts. Fat is part of you, you know. Fat is the bad part. The impure part. The burn is good. Don’t fucking cut corners! Stop it, you snivelling little rat! Seventeen laps? How many corners did you cut, while you had me distracted? Do them again. All of them! Do. Them. Again. Go!
Sit ups. Now. Don’t get fucking cocky on me; I’m not the one who weighted ninety nine fucking pounds this morning. Eighty? Please. You’ll never get down to eighty. Pathetic – just plain pathetic. Seven. Eight. Nine. I swear to god, if you so much as think about resting, you’re starting them again. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Keep. Fucking. Going.
Finish the sit ups, finish the push ups, and you’re done. Twenty more laps, and that’s it. Scurry home, little boy; run home and collapse into bed. You did good, you did – but it took me a lot of fucking work. And I’d better see ninety seven on those sales, tomorrow, or you’re doubling it. Cruel? Yeah, right. Call me whatever you like, but you know you can’t leave me. You need me. Admit it. You. Need. Me.
Out of bed. Shower, now. Shower – but scale first. Take off those pyjamas. God, look at your thighs. Look at your rolls. You’d think you were eating just as much as before. Ninety seven point four. Do you remember what I said? I said ninety fucking seven! No ifs and no fucking buts, nine seven point oh. You’re going to double it, today, and I swear to god, if I catch you eating, it’s tripled. Pathetic little boy; stop crying. Crying is useless. Everything is useless, unless it burns calories. Go bleed it out or something. God, must you sob so fucking loud? People are going to hear, you know.
Silver to skin, red to tile. Look at the pretty cuts. You can see your flesh. Can you see any fat? It’s gone – all gone. It’s gone from your arms, at least… maybe if you cut your thighs open, it’ll all fall out. Ha. Fat fucking chance. Bleed out some of that disgusting sugar, and bleed out your remorse with it. Get over yourself – it’s your fault you didn’t lose more, not mine. You should have worked harder. Shouldn’t have cut so many corners, now, should you? Cutting corners, cutting wrists – jesus, you’rea failure.
School – walk there. Save your fucking train money. I don’t care how tired you are, you have half a pound to lose. Was it really point four? Maybe you hallucinated. Maybe it was point five. Five, or six, or seven. See? Better safe than sorry. Better safe than fat. Throw your lunch in the bin, and don’t you dare even contemplate taking a bite of that apple. Nothing. No food today – none whatsoever.
Don’t you love the way people look at you? Oh, you’re still fat, mark my words – but you’re losing it. Slowly, but surely. Losing it, haha. You are, aren’t you? You’re practically coming apart at the seams under my fingers. God knows what would happen if I wasn’t holding you together. But I am, aren’t I? I am. I am. Does it make you proud, to turn heads? When those jeans you bought just weeks ago suddenly seem to hang off you like sheets? Look at those pretty bones, little boy. See? See how I help you? You’ll be beautiful in no time.
Run along home – and I mean run; you’ve still got your workout to do. If you don’t fuck me around, you might be home by six. Might. Not that it’d fucking kill you to miss dinner or anything. Jesus. Laps, sit ups, laps, push ups, laps. Run home. Go on! Faster! Key to keyhole, and – are you shaking? Jesus, it was only a couple hours work out. Get over it. Pull up a chair. Relax. Pulse racing? Good, good – still burning calories, you know. Keep the jacket off. No, you’re not cold. Arm down, or they’ll see the marks.
Oh god, spaghetti? You’d better not touch that. You’re not hungry. I don’t care what your mother says, don’t fucking eat it! Carbs. Typical. Eat a little salad. A couple forkfuls of that heinous stuff, maybe. Chew, chew – don’t you dare swallow! How? How what? How am I supposed to know? Just get rid of the goddamn food! Sneeze or cough or spit it out, but if you let it slip down your throat, then you’re doing another five hundred sit ups.
Toilet, now. Fingers down throat, tears to eyes – god, do you ever stop crying? I don’t care how much it hurts. Do you want to be pretty? Do you? Then stop pissing around and puke. It. Up You were the one who swallowed it in the first place. I don’t care if she was watching you, I don’t care if she wouldn’t let you leave – I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care! You’re not good enough, and that’s all there is to it. Good – just like that. Get it all out. Don’t you feel better empty? Makes you feel pretty. Makes you feel thin. Now, back to your room, and get onto those sit ups. Maybe if you do the first five hundred properly, I’ll let you sleep.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm not sure if this is fiction or not.