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The mirror is the kind of thing that never lies because it never learned to tell the truth, in the first place. I think about scales as the spotlight, mirror is just an audience keeping score.
When I spot myself in front of the mirror in the school's bathroom, everything outside, halls and classrooms go quiet in the most outrageous ways. Harsh light hums loud as it radiates over me, cold and direct.
I'm standing in the right angle, the one that makes the light excavate hollowness on my cheeks, lugging a tough shadow under the emphasized bone overneath. I let my digits land over my jaw just to confirm.
I've been eating for you, but my fingertips always end up hovering over the hem of my shirt.
I call it a habit.
'Maintenance', isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind.
I just need to take a quick check.
Think about: Ensurance
More like reassurance.
Just something to be sure that the coffee I drank before getting on the bus this morning or the half croissant I ate before class hasn't shifted anything without my permission yet. It had butter on it.
Just when I was about to lift up my shirt, I heard someone in the urinal beside me. His pants are down, but all I can do is find myself just staring at the way his shirt hangs so easily, how it's held only by his sloped shoulders.
I look back at myself and try to feel earned. I try to feel big in a body that people call otherwise (in front of a mirror that contradicts what they say). I always call myself disciplined. Discipline pays off, people say.
But it all makes me feel audited.
All my efforts on the mirror blur by the sight of someone narrower than me. Someone with a more unearned structure than mine. My eyes linger at his hip bones.
The way they look so sharp, like two pointy swords pointing towards their faint reflection in the dirty white porcelain, so prominent without him having to reshape any of the greasy residue around them.
Do you still call it voyeurism if you're in a bathroom ogling at someone else's bones?
I don't want him, I have a boyfriend.
I want to be him.
I've been eating for you but I still envy those who don't have to force themselves to.
When he finishes, his head never turns down. The fabric of his shirt stays smooth in the right place but he never shows any sign restraining his breath.
He pulls up his jeans, sliding them effortlessly through his thighs and his fingertips never alight to trace along those swords pointing through his hips.
When he walks to the sink beside me, the waterfall silently pours down over his tendrils, but his eyes never land on the threatening glass frame in front of us.
"Bye Bill" I hear him say as the door closes behind him, those are the words that get to detach my stare from him. The room exhales the breath I was holding in my throat and now, the mirror has me to itself again.
I've been eating for you but I don't hesitate once again. My fingers run back in place, and I lift up my shirt before anyone else can come in.
The sight isn't as frightening as I brace for.
Nothing has shifted, that's how it gets you.
For now the bone is still sharp ahead before the disgusting softness. I'm still able to trace and count each one of my twenty four ribs. I trace my hipbone with my fingertips, relieved that every edge is still hollow where it’s supposed to be.
I'm not disgusted, but I'm not satisfied either, I can't help but think it's unfinished. If I stare long enough I still can find proof of residue where I don't want it to be, there's still a margin waiting for me to cut it down.
I've been eating for you and still, this is all the peace it gives me. Sometimes I wish it was as easy as grabbing a knife to just chop off any extra skin full of fat shifting inside me and sew it the way I want it to be.
The school bell rings, I take a last look at all those parts I don't like, close my eyes and let the fabric fall back into place.
---
By lunch, the mirrors have multiplied.
It's a mirror maze. I caught myself in the forks, in this metal tray and even in the tile floor. My reflection is inconsistent, every angle plays with my structure, width and outline. Forks make my face look elongated and funny, the floor just looks wide.
I'm sitting next to Gabe, my boyfriend. I've been eating for him, but he doesn't explicitly know about this. Our knees bump on purpose under the table but he keeps talking like nothing and I pretend I don't acknowledge it. At school, we don't hold hands nor kiss.
Gabe talks loud and laughs with a full mouth, he's the only person who can get to look pretty even during a scene like this. My eyes keep staring straight at his pink lips, the dilemma between wanting to kiss him and just track all those chunks of food falling out of his mouth.
He looks good but the food is like it is insisting on existing outside of the plate which makes my stomach twist uncomfortable.
Mid October, the heaters in the cafeteria are on but I still can feel the coldness needling at my bones.
My body keeps shifting so I don't think about it much, just drag myself a few inches closer to the left side until my arm brushes Gabe's sleeve so I can imagine I'm feeling a glimpse of his own heat transferring electrically to me.
Everyone around is just dressed in their short sleeves they use under their jackets outside.. Except for Ryan.
Ryan sits across from me, wrapped tight in a scarf and a coat that seems to have plush inside, looking like he can also feel how hostile the room is towards (me/us?).
Both of his hands are resting on his empty side of the table and that's what gets me, he didn't even care to bring a tray, and nobody else questioned it. I remember when it was so easy for me to wave it off and say you ate earlier at home.
His eyes dropped and his fingers looked finished, knuckles emphasized and too close together, pale skin pulled tight in an unimaginable way, like none of that peel was ever meant to stretch that far.
His ever pinkish nails are turning purple... Blue.
I try to feel sympathy for him. It's easier to feel empathy for someone when you've been in their shoes.
But I swear I just can't when he's looking more disciplined than me.
I look down at my untouched plate but I don't see the same as anyone else. I only see numbers.
Mush grains with processed vegetables, chicken slick in grease, the broccoli on the same plate already inedible because of that, a green apple and a single slice of pure carbs.
I stab holes at the broccoli until it splinters and smear the grains across the tray to leave stains that look convincing enough, leaving evidence of effort.
My stomach silently churns so I lift one of the nuggets and hold it there, right at my mouth, close enough I feel all the grease soaking, smearing across my cracked lips.
I breathe out, opening slightly by trembling lips..
But I just can't stand this.
Not with him sitting there like that.
So contained.
So facile.
So effortless making my own effort look less.
'Control'isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind.
"Ryan, you haven't brought anything.. You sure you don't want some?" The words I've been rehearsing in the back of my brain for the past minutes came quickly before I could bite my tongue.
It takes a long second for him to process, Ryan shakes his head, thanking me but the look on his face when his eyes land on me, dissecting my frame up and down so slowly, expresses anything but gratitude.
"Yeah, of course" I say under my breath, the bitter words folding towards me and not even my mind can't tell if it's just a genuine 'you're welcome' or just pure sarcasm.
"I could take it" Gabe suddenly interrupts, already reaching, like it's a solved problem. He pushes my trail on his side, taking that stupid apple and placing it on the visibly soiled table in front of me.
And just this detail makes me think he's clocked me. I think this is him saying 'I know' without him humiliating me in front of our friends. My left eyebrow raises, my lips tremble as I open my mouth to say something quick. Defensive, maybe.
But he shrugs it off easily and looks away "I prefer them red" he says and eats.
I've been eating for him.
But I watch him do it for me.
---
I've always been bad at math when it's not about my body. The numbers on the checkboard don't decide whether I get to feel okay later, and unlike my weight, I never know where they should end.
For me, it's like a countdown. Never to zero, but to whatever's left when your brain stops testing you to see if you can do more.
I ate the apple reluctantly and after lunch, I bought a water bottle and a pack of gum from a vending machine and finished them both before bell rang. Drank too fast standing by the lockers, like it was something I needed to get over with but now sitting here, I can feel the water alive inside me.
Keeps the hunger away for a few hours but it's an unwanted presence, it sloshes whenever I move and makes me feel heavier than I should.
In class, the teacher keeps talking nonsense about angles and proofs, lines that meet only to gap, and all I can think is that I have to stick to this same routine to keep my thighs gapped the same way.
My vision is blurred at the edges, like someone smeared the corners of a camera with their thumb and the familiar lightheadedness creeps in.
A thin ringing behind my ears, that hollow, buoyant feeling of my head floating a second away from my physique.
There's that metallic, bittersweet taste in the back of my throat again but I keep my eyes forward and don't let my back slouch. The trick is not letting it show, but I can't help but thinking Ryan would recognize this if our desks were close enough.
My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth and I breathe through it. The taste of mint floods my senses, tasting clean as my stomach should be. It's supposed to help, It usually does, at least.
I lean to reach for my backpack that's been sitting on the floor since the class started, trying to ignore how the water inside me tilts in my direction like a boat over sea.
My eyes don't drop while I unzip it, my hand knows and goes straight where it needs to. The flexible ruler bends slightly as I pull it free, already compliant, red plastic catches the classroom light, translucent and unassuming.
Hesitation does not invade my head like it did earlier in the bathroom, I just wrap it around my wrist. The ruler curves easily, obedient to the shape I give it. It's not a perfect tool, but it's precise enough to tell me what I need to know.
'Measuring' isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind.
The plastic cools against my colder skin. A ruler never cares where I start but tells me where I end.
5.5 inch.
But this number scares me because it isn't the same as I got last time. I drag it closer to the core, just so it can be just beneath my carpal bone and press it tighter against my wrist. The tighter I press, the lower I can squeeze.
The pressure is grounding and I can already imagine it'll leave a faint temporal mark on my skin.
The people on the forums I have been might call this cheating, lying to yourself so you don't feel so bad about not being able to reach that desired number, but I like to think this is not too different from sucking in your stomach whenever you pass through your reflection.
5.4 inch
Same as last time.
I loosen it, tighten it again, shifting my gaze forward to the chalkboard, thinking it might change if i don't stare, same feeling you get when you keep opening the empty fridge every five minutes when you feel like binging.
Stupid, but still expecting something new might appear.
And that's a relief, you're not filling yourself with unnecessary calories.
That's the scare, you haven't made any progress over beating this loopish behaviour once again.
I think about Gabe, I've been eating for him. Repeating this line to myself like it's some kind of a promise, but sometimes it just feels like a cover story. It takes a liar to know one.
As if I had summoned him, his hand came down on my wrist without warning.
He doesn't stop me from whatever he thinks I'm doing, he just rests over it. I hear the teacher's voice saying something while he uses that hand to pull the ruler loose.
His eyes lay on me for a faint second and a little grin blooms on his face as he sets it on his side of the desk and starts using it to draw the lines on the board.
Then he looks away and doesn't question any of my moves, that's good but somehow makes me worse.
Now, my wrist feels exposed without the pressure, almost like it's expanding underneath my gaze. The moment he places it free on the middle of the desk, I take it back too quickly and slam it quietly on the wood on my side.
The teacher calls out my name and that's when I actually become aware that I haven't been listening since she started talking about those gapping lines.
I have to stand now, but the water in my stomach drags me down, heavy and wrong, like it’s pulling me off balance. My eyes wander around the classroom until Gabe's already there mouthing me the answer.
I open my mouth heavily, say it out loud and sit down again.
Gabe keeps his eyes on the board.
I keep mine on my wrist, It still feels weird and bigger so I keep it tucked under the desk until the feeling goes away.
---
The day continued, It went fast. My stomach kept growling and I tried to keep my mind distracted, genuinely satisfied to finally be able to feel the ketones in the back of my throat again.
We're now lying on Gabe's bed. It's dark in his room, the illuminations life depends on his multicolored lights glued on the ceiling and the screen glowing in front of us.
I've always been confused over the fact that he doesn't have any mirrors in his room, so whenever I'm staying I put my trust in the distorted reflection in his window.
One of his hands is busy playing this videogame, the other resting over my hipbone, thumb slightly brushing on my prominent bone.
The fact that it doesn't sink makes it feel right, anchored, like there are enough good parts in me there to be held onto.
Then, the muscles of his hand tense and move forward, and I don't mind until it slides from my bone toward my thigh, fingers pressing into that soft part full of residue, slowly swelling like a cyst underneath his palm.
The warmth of his hand settles and my body jerks away immediately like it was burnt.
He raises an eyebrow and turns his face fully at me, hand floating in the same position now just holding the air "What was that for?" snorts.
"Nothing" I say quickly. "Just.." You made me feel too self conscious about how gross my body is.
"Just.. Muscle thing" I finish, and nod toward the screen, distracting him on how his avatar just got killed while he was looking at me.
He mutters a curse under his breath, dropping the controller onto the bed, then his eyes flick back at me, observing me "You're shaking though" says, placing that same hand on my arm now.
"Am I?" I am. I can feel it once he says it. This low, constant tremor under my skin, like my bones, are the ones who forgot how to stay still. My jaw tightens to keep my teeth from clicking.
"It's cold in your room" I say.
He doesn't say another word, he takes the air conditioner remote and I hear the beep as the temperature rises.
"Mom ordered pizza, by the way" mentions calmly as he reaches back for the controller and gets back to his game.
"Oh" I just let out quiet.
And fifteen minutes later the box is here. Sitting between us like a test. Almost as if it had eyes and was challenging me.
Grease bleeds through the cardboard but Gabe's already eating a slice, encouraging me to do the same.
I try to shut off my brain. Dudes eat pizza... And dudes don't usually measure their wrists in the middle of math class.
I take the smaller slice. Grease shines green underneath the blue lights across my fingertips. Makes me feel gross, as if my fingers grew fat just from touching it.
I wipe them on my jeans, trying to ignore how soft my tights feel for deserving to eat something like this or the spasm they make just from thinking about it before I even take the first bite.
Here's the trap:It's hot and I hate how good it tastes. My body reacts immediately. My mouth fills with saliva, swallowing. Starving for more.
It doesn't take long before I realize I was the one who finished most of it, when the realization I didn't even taste the last bites sets in.
The slick on my fingers torturing me and my stomach just feels heavy, but not full like water does to it.
Gabe just leans back on the bed, looking good and satisfied. I feel guilty and contaminated.
The question comes fast.
Should I keep it?
The diabolical question consuming my brain. Invented by the broke thief who has until sunrise before they trace the object back to him or the young teenage girl knowing she cannot give a good future to his kids.
'Should I keep it?'
The girl has eleven weeks to decide, the thief twelve hours and I have forty minutes.
Before I consciously decide I'm already standing up "I need to go to the bathroom" I mutter.
Inside the bathroom, the first thing I do after closing the door is put on the sink.
I don't even bother looking in the mirror because I already know my stomach is bloated, feels like lumb underneath my shirt.
I haven't done this in a long time but it's easier than I expected.
My body doesn't even fight me. My knees stay grounded against the tile, and even through my jeans, I can feel the cold seeping into my body as my right hand holds on the white porcelain.
The worst part about food like pizza, besides the calories, it has a good flavour the first time it reaches your tongue, but never the second.
I try not to look directly at my reflection on the clean toilet water so this feels less humiliating. My right hand already knows the shape by old habit and I just push hard against the back of my throat.
Using my uvula like a punching bag, as if it was the one to blame for me losing control again. For me ending back here again. In my boyfriend's bathroom.
The sound is always worse than the taste.
Animal.
Wet and graceless, so I try to keep it quiet.
I hear myself gag once. twice.
As many times as necessary until dough comes back out in broken, unmade little pieces, making it look less threatening now.
It tastes just rancid as I remembered, my stomach feeling lighter in exchange for my throat aching, burn for subtraction, fair trade.
The smell is unpleasant but the feeling is not, it's something close to a win.
'Victory' isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind.
Seeing all those little pieces just floating together under my gaze, looking all defeated, it's like I almost hear them cheering me on.
Makes me wonder how much I managed to undo, whether it was enough to matter and prevent the shift on my body later.
Both of my fingers push harder until my knuckles are the ones hurting just by brushing my teeth. Until the only thing that comes out is just noise and sour acid running through my mouth at the speed of the sink beside me.
Until my eyes water, I feel the cold tears on my cheeks, but not from pain, but from the effort.
From my stomach feeling empty but not clean, just scraped.
Like a wire brush to something soft and moldable like.. Clay.
My arm gives out over the toilet sink, my head hanging just millimeters away from what I just got out.
Harsh smell dissolving my nostrils, I used my last bit of strength to pull away and turn around, waiting for my face to meet the sink, maybe the mirror overneath as I could help myself.
Instead, my eyes meet Gabe's. My heart stops, dropping right to my stomach giving me a reason to throw up again.
I think he's going to yell. I'm just waiting for the moment when the shock fades and his pretty face contorts into a grimace of pure disgust and yells at me for what I just did to myself.
Maybe he won't even use his voice, maybe he'll just leave me alone to ponder the excuse I'll have to use for the image of me forcing my fingers into my mouth inside his clean bathroom.
The sink stops running and he walks quietly towards me, carefully, as if he was walking towards an aggressive animal, but he doesn't give me that look the veterinarians give to the aggressive pig before sedating it.
He reaches for toilet paper, the tear is quiet, breaks easily in his strong hands, the same way I feel I would if he dares to pull me onto his arms.
He doesn't though, he turns my body so I’m facing him, so easily that it simply feels like a reward.
Gabe gently runs the toilet paper around the soiled corners of my mouth.
"Don't peg me as a fool" That's all he says, but he doesn't sound angry at all.
I try to form the word 'I'm sorry', but I won't be meaning it. I don't regret doing this to myself, I regret that he had to find out I do it.
"I've been eating for you" i say, almost defensive, as my throat aches between the rancid taste on my mouth,. Those aren't the right words, but at least I'm being honest.
"I know" he lets out after wiping my mouth. He leans to press his lips on my temple then walks to flush the mess I made.
I stand up, still feeling weak, dizzy, almost miserable. The mirror above the sink has this thin crack running through it. I didn't even notice it was there before.
It splits my face slightly off center. Makes my face look uneven. I swallow and adjust my stance until the crack no longer runs through my ribs.
And, while he still has his back turned, my fingers end up hovering over my shirt once again.
Just a quick check.