Categories > Original > Drama
She lay broken upon the white tiles of the bathroom floor, the cold hard surface creeping up her skin and sleeping awkwardly upon her limbs. The blinding light echoed wildly around the room in which she cries; finding her eyes and making them burn more with the tears that wept from her eyes. The taste of bitter acid kisses her tongue and lingered on her lips longer than she had anticipated. She stays locked inside her arms, crying into the little comfort they can offer. Her body is caged in just underwear though it hangs loosely from her body as though she were nothing at all. The room spins with manic laughter as she tried to steady the heavy beating of her heart, slow and angry like the words that seep from her memories to stain her present situation. Her skin is stretched bitterly across her bones causing shocking alarm to those who dare see her naked body. You could count the calcium sticks with surprising accuracy as they lift one by one with the steady oxygen she takes. Her are eyes are has been gems within hollow shell as her hair falls lank around her jutted features.
She regains control of her sadness, peeling herself from the floor as she stumbles over to the sink. Grabbing a brush, she viciously scrubs away the excess parts that linger on her teeth, making her mouth taste fresher than it had before. For a second she peers into the mirror that hangs above the sink to access; her flesh puffs out like a nightmare, her rounded face curves against her and her image screams hideous though it screams a lie. Curling her fist into a ball, she hurls it straight for the mirror and watches as the shards fall like unwanted memories around her. She reaches for the oversized gown and smothers herself in it, not wanting the outside world to see her dramatic morphing. She bleeds from the hand but she does not care; this is simple indentation to her scars that she was painted into her once glorious skin. She lets the droplets fall upon the bathroom floor and follow her like a cry for help; a trail of pleading. Telling herself she clear the evidence soon, she walks over to the portrait mirror; unveiling her to it as though she was a show. The spotlight falls upon her. Her ribs shine in rows as her breast barely visible from her skin. Her legs and arms almost shatter as you stare at them. Her features are striking. She stares for a little over a minute before hiding herself into the comfort of the gown. She falls onto the bed but barely makes a dent; the bed does not creak under her weight but cups her delicately as though she were china. She reaches underneath her pillow and retrieves for the pages of a diary, all tattered with her self esteem. They loosely cling to the spin as she flickers through each one, a diary of change. The words stand as shouts and cries, full of anger. Full of rage. Full of hate. She allows her mind to relive the moments she has imprinted into the page.
Fat. Ugly. Slut. She reads the words that now began to whisper to her. Though months back they seem like they are still calling her now. Monsters of cruelty spiral around her and play games with her conscious. She places her hand in the middle of the page and curls the paper into a crunched up ball. She tears the pages and throws them across the room. Destroying everything that she had ever known in a single heartbeat. The clock ticks by and she falls again into a state of depression, turning to the safety of her now fragile body. Surrounding her are colleges of beauty magazines, each one paints the wall as a spur to carry on. Her wishes and hopes were plastered in every bodice of model that waved from their influence, their bodies saying, / you want to be this/.. They were all lies, as brutal as the demons that crawl in the flesh of our young victim.
Her eyes carry around the setting of the room, each as torn as the mind she now occupies. As she stares her eyes catch glimpse of a photograph, its surface gleams as the light catches its laminated moment. She stares at it before picking it up from the floor; it had been within the wreckage she had wheeled. She flicks it between fingers before stroking it with the small of her cushioned fingertip. It was her former self; rounded with happiness, curves on her body. Not overweight but echoing a fine young woman. She was beautiful. Not because of her body, but merely because the sparks in her eyes were still there. They had burnt out a while ago along with the flickering flame of her spirit. She was merely a ghost, living a lie that had been spread, wild fire across the dreams of teenagers. Burning up what we know and protesting beauty in digits small than their hearts.
/Have you lost weight? You look so good/. It was a simple comment that started a chain of events each bit as unnerving and frightening as the nightmares you tell the children. She smiled at the compliment once now curses it now. If only she had listened to the pride swallowed in the mouth of her mother. The image that her parents and loved ones could see. She hides in clothes that daren’t show her skeletal figure. She cannot bear the disappointment. If only she could break the cycle, regain the spark. Be a burning sense of happiness instead of the raining clouds of loneliness. She removes herself from her point and stumbles over to the scales just on the outskirts of her en suite bathroom. She removes the gown and lets it drop to the floor, wondering for a split lightening bolt if the gown weighed more than her, sure she would collapse under its strength. She steps onto the scales and watches as the numbers stutter between one another. She holds her breath as she is counted down from the week before. She can’t shake the disappointment in her; not as much as she had hoped. To not feel this would be a greater gift to her. Knowledge is a useless tool when you are compelled to the sweet addiction. Knowledge can never drown out the need to be;
Lighter Than Air
She regains control of her sadness, peeling herself from the floor as she stumbles over to the sink. Grabbing a brush, she viciously scrubs away the excess parts that linger on her teeth, making her mouth taste fresher than it had before. For a second she peers into the mirror that hangs above the sink to access; her flesh puffs out like a nightmare, her rounded face curves against her and her image screams hideous though it screams a lie. Curling her fist into a ball, she hurls it straight for the mirror and watches as the shards fall like unwanted memories around her. She reaches for the oversized gown and smothers herself in it, not wanting the outside world to see her dramatic morphing. She bleeds from the hand but she does not care; this is simple indentation to her scars that she was painted into her once glorious skin. She lets the droplets fall upon the bathroom floor and follow her like a cry for help; a trail of pleading. Telling herself she clear the evidence soon, she walks over to the portrait mirror; unveiling her to it as though she was a show. The spotlight falls upon her. Her ribs shine in rows as her breast barely visible from her skin. Her legs and arms almost shatter as you stare at them. Her features are striking. She stares for a little over a minute before hiding herself into the comfort of the gown. She falls onto the bed but barely makes a dent; the bed does not creak under her weight but cups her delicately as though she were china. She reaches underneath her pillow and retrieves for the pages of a diary, all tattered with her self esteem. They loosely cling to the spin as she flickers through each one, a diary of change. The words stand as shouts and cries, full of anger. Full of rage. Full of hate. She allows her mind to relive the moments she has imprinted into the page.
Fat. Ugly. Slut. She reads the words that now began to whisper to her. Though months back they seem like they are still calling her now. Monsters of cruelty spiral around her and play games with her conscious. She places her hand in the middle of the page and curls the paper into a crunched up ball. She tears the pages and throws them across the room. Destroying everything that she had ever known in a single heartbeat. The clock ticks by and she falls again into a state of depression, turning to the safety of her now fragile body. Surrounding her are colleges of beauty magazines, each one paints the wall as a spur to carry on. Her wishes and hopes were plastered in every bodice of model that waved from their influence, their bodies saying, / you want to be this/.. They were all lies, as brutal as the demons that crawl in the flesh of our young victim.
Her eyes carry around the setting of the room, each as torn as the mind she now occupies. As she stares her eyes catch glimpse of a photograph, its surface gleams as the light catches its laminated moment. She stares at it before picking it up from the floor; it had been within the wreckage she had wheeled. She flicks it between fingers before stroking it with the small of her cushioned fingertip. It was her former self; rounded with happiness, curves on her body. Not overweight but echoing a fine young woman. She was beautiful. Not because of her body, but merely because the sparks in her eyes were still there. They had burnt out a while ago along with the flickering flame of her spirit. She was merely a ghost, living a lie that had been spread, wild fire across the dreams of teenagers. Burning up what we know and protesting beauty in digits small than their hearts.
/Have you lost weight? You look so good/. It was a simple comment that started a chain of events each bit as unnerving and frightening as the nightmares you tell the children. She smiled at the compliment once now curses it now. If only she had listened to the pride swallowed in the mouth of her mother. The image that her parents and loved ones could see. She hides in clothes that daren’t show her skeletal figure. She cannot bear the disappointment. If only she could break the cycle, regain the spark. Be a burning sense of happiness instead of the raining clouds of loneliness. She removes herself from her point and stumbles over to the scales just on the outskirts of her en suite bathroom. She removes the gown and lets it drop to the floor, wondering for a split lightening bolt if the gown weighed more than her, sure she would collapse under its strength. She steps onto the scales and watches as the numbers stutter between one another. She holds her breath as she is counted down from the week before. She can’t shake the disappointment in her; not as much as she had hoped. To not feel this would be a greater gift to her. Knowledge is a useless tool when you are compelled to the sweet addiction. Knowledge can never drown out the need to be;
Lighter Than Air
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