Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
After toweling myself dry, I take a step toward my full-length mirror and step on the scale naked. I never weigh myself in clothes. I need the numbers to reflect exactly what I weigh, and clothes could potentially deceive that. My heart thuds in my chest, and my body quakes at the idea of looking down at the neon numbers on the glass scale.
It’s okay, I just have to look down.
My flesh rises with goosebumps as the cool air caresses my skin.
I can’t do it.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and hold it. My lungs expand, and I hold in my breath until dizziness fills my head, making me unsteady.
Only when my body starts swaying do I exhale and then take another sharp inhale, practically thirsting for oxygen.
I cautiously peek down, and the numbers on the scale have me choking back a sob.
No.
How is this possible?
Tears fill my vision, but I keep staring at the numbers until I can’t see them anymore. How did I gain two pounds in a day? I barely even had two bites of food yesterday. I haven’t eaten anything today either.
How? HOW?
Two pounds is too much. No, half a pound is already too many. I’m supposed to lose weight, not gain. I’m supposed to be the perfect weight for the pageant this summer.
My mother always said that people don’t see what’s on the inside.
They only see the outside, the image of us and what we present ourselves to be. We are heavily analyzed by our words, the shape and size of our bodies. We are judged, scrutinized, and dissected. We are nothing short of animals in a lab. It’s simply human nature, isn’t it?
Our value is solely based on what people see.
And what do they see?
The vessel that carries us, the body that breathes, the shell that walks.
That is what they see and this is my value.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I recognize how wrong this is. But I am consumed with my obsession — to be perfect. To look perfect.
I am my mother’s daughter, after all. People look at me, and they see someone in control. The personification of beauty and apparently that makes me worthy.
This is my value.
My eyes catch the reflection in the mirror. My reflection — my pale body. Am I bloated? My stomach looks slightly distended. My waist is bigger, and my thighs appear thicker than yesterday. And my breasts. They are not perky — no, my boobs are too large, too heavy, and the slopes are disproportionate. There’s nothing attractive about my body.
My flaws glare back at me through the mirror, and I fight back a gag, the feeling of pure disgust coursing through me.
What is wrong with me? Am I not exercising enough? Not purging enough? Am I not controlling my urges enough?
What people see is the perfect facade I’m showing them. A pretty illusion of what Riley Johnson is. In reality, my value is that of a disintegrating butterfly. Worthless and grotesque.
My body is a sinking ship, and I am drowning in the wreckage of it.
I step off the scale, avoiding the mirror. I mechanically get dressed and walk back into my bedroom to find a tray of food on my nightstand. A tray of perfect portions of food. With exact calories and proteins that my mother instructed Miss Miller to give me. My mother controls every bite of food that I take — or so she thinks.
In goading silence, I shove the food in my mouth. Knowing exactly what I will be doing afterward. The laxatives in my nightstand are practically mocking me. I barely taste the food, barely chew, just forcing everything down my throat with the help of water. Once my tray is clear, I grab the small bottle of pills from my nightstand and find my way to the bathroom.
This is my value.
Worthless and grotesque.
CHAPTER TWO
Grayson — 15 years old (Freshman year)
Naomi pads barefoot around the living room, gathering her multicolor hair ties as she goes before coming back to me and dropping them into my lap.
I grin, knowing exactly what she’s trying to tell me, without actually saying the words. “You want your hair done?”
She nods, a smile playing across her lips. “What kind of braids do you want?”
My heart thuds in my chest, as I wait anxiously for her response. Just a word, sweetheart. One word, that’s all I’m asking.
She looks over my shoulder, avoiding my eyes. And then her gaze falls to our mother, who is sleeping on the bed in the corner of the trailer. Noami looks back at me, fidgeting with the pink hair tie in her hand.
Speak to me, please.
A minute passes, and when she remains consistently silent, I realize that maybe today is not the day I’ll hear her voice. She continues to fidget with the hair tie, but her movement is more agitated now. Her lips twist grumpily and she stares at me, her eyebrows furrow with great impatience.