Of Control

I pace the room, my footsteps echoing in the silence.
The room is dark, the only source of illumination coming from the candles flickering softly.
My mission is simple: avoid food at all costs.
Food is the enemy.
Food is the tormentor.

The low rumbling of my stomach begs to differ.
I glance down at my thighs and that familiar feeling surfaces again.
Disgust.
Repulsion.
The flesh should not be touching.
So why is it?
Am I really that weak?
No. I know I'm stronger than that.
I continue staring at the flesh, half hoping that if I stare long enough, it will melt away.

I know that isn't possible, but I can dream, right?
Sway on my feet, holding my hand out to stop the fall.
Bones on the left wrist stick out.
Smile slightly.
How do I make the other match?
Calorie intake improves. Smile again.

I stare at my thighs, held in by the tight fabric of my jeans.
Too tight. Too fat. Shouldn't have eaten those crackers.
Stupid. Stupid.
Look in the mirror. Smile pretty. Deny at all costs.
Perfection.

Standing on stage, the clothes smothering me. Suffocating.
99.
Too fat. Way too fat.
Just 7 more pounds and I'll be perfect.
Maybe.
Maybe 92 isn't enough.
88. I can be 88 pounds.
I can. I will. I have to.

The hunger is calling to me.
I fight it every day and every night.
Too fat. I fight it to feel alive.
"Maybe you should eat," Aaron says.
He looks worried. I smile.
"No. It's fine. I'm fine," I reply.

101. How? I've been good.
I've been very good. Why?
How?

Erin smiles at me. Something's going on.
"You used to be so pretty, Anya."
Used to? What does she mean?

I hold my breath. Hide behind a smile.
Sip my water and hold the smile.
See? Nothing wrong here, baby. Everything's perfect.

I remember the world from the eyes of a child.
I want to go back to believing in everything.
To knowing nothing. The sun is cold.

Aaron watches me from the chair.
I feel his eyes on me.
Meet his eyes. He looks away quickly.
Doesn't want me to know.
What's wrong? Doesn't he see how happy I am?

Need to be perfect. For me. For them.
One rib, two rib, three rib, four.
Check the hips. Jeans barely hanging on.
I smile.
95.

95.
Not enough. Not enough.
I don't want it, Erin.
I said no. I mean it, Erin.
I walk away.
"Anya!"
I ignore her and walk away.

Aaron sighs and puts down his pen.
Turns to face me.
93. The pride and accomplishment shine in my eyes.
Three pounds. Three pounds to go before I reach 90.
5 pounds until I reach the ultimate goal.
Five pounds. Just five more pounds.

No, Aaron.
Don't want it.
Ate earlier.
Control.
He looks horrified.
I knew it.
Too fat.
I'm too fat for anyone to look at me.
Smile.
I feel like crying.
Control.

Lack of food.
Stomach rumbling slightly.
Natural high.
Aaron's watching.
Pick up the apple.
Take a bite.
He smiles.
Turn my head.
Spit it out.
Control.

I ate that stupid piece of bread.
Where did the control go?
Stand up.
"Where are you going, Anya?"
Erin.
"I have a show to get ready for."
Walk out the door.
Have to jog and walk it all off.
Breathe. Footsteps strangely loud on the pavement.
No one is here. I'm alone.
Nothing new there.
Control.