"...The harsh reality that beauty is distructive and fleeting is as obvious as my bones..."
AMARA ANNA TENOU
It had been a week. An
entire week. A week since she had been placed in the hospital. One week; seven days; 168 hours; 10,080 minutes; 604,800 seconds. Normally, she wasn’t this obsessive. Normally, she would only obsess over counting calories, weighing herself, and recording her weight. Unless it had to do with logic – and that was what her methods, her cycle, her control was bases off of – she merely let it be. She had no interest in anything that wasn’t logical, such as emotions and the like. That was why she preferred her cycle; needed her cycle. It was logic in a world where nothing else seemed logical to her. But, all that said, this time she was obsessing over something completely differing; something far more detrimental to what was left of her already-fraying sanity.
The cycle had been broken; she despised – hated – loathed that.
The cycle, random as it may have seemed to some, had been her only constant in an ever-changing world. It had been simple. She would weigh herself Sunday as a base weight, calculate her BMI (body mass index) and then decide whether she would be anorexic or bulimic that week; it all depended upon her BMI, really. If she were to be bulimic that week, she would obsessively count her caloric intake, purge completely if it were higher than she wanted, and weigh herself at least once whenever she had the opportunity. Anorexia was rather simpler than the former: she wouldn’t eat for a set amount of days, weighing herself each night until she reached her target weight, upon which time she would ease over into bulimia to maintain the weight. In short, this cycle-less week had been nothing short of Hell.
Of course, she knew that things would only get worse. The first few days she had been here, she had been on a fluid drip, along with the caloric intake of her meals being raised higher and higher than her usual seven hundred. She hadn’t noticed at first, as the increments had been so small, but finally, on the fourth day, she had noted that her first and second ribs on the top were beginning to fill themselves in again. Waking a day later in solitary confinement, she had been told that she had attacked one of the doctors after snapping. She was back in her usual room by the sixth day, but only thanks to careful acting and manipulation; she knew exactly what to say, how, and when to say it. The doctors were too focused on their own things to get that she was lying right through her teeth.
Today began her first “official” day out of the hospital, and her first “official” day here at the academy. She had been allowed out yesterday to collect her things and bring them to the school, but that had been all. Then, in the evening, she had been brought back, shown to her room, and left there. She supposed she could only be trusted because they had waited until she had been force-fed her three-meals-a-day quota back in the eating disorder ward before she had been allowed to come here. As of now, most everything was completely digested, and so purging would have no effect. She
hated that. She had been kept awake by thoughts of how much weight she had possibly put on, and how much work it would need to get it back off. (Of course, realistically, she had put on only about three pounds, but to her distorted mind, that looked like more than it truly was.)
Rolling over in her bed, she stared at the ceiling for a few moments, emerald eyes darker and less bright than usual. Another day; another set of hours to figure out how to dupe the staff. With a roll her eyes, she shifted and sat up at the edge of the bed. Running a boney, almost skeletal hand through her hair – short, boyish, sandy-blonde, and slightly brittle – she looked about her room, trying to remember where she’d put her pants and jacket. She finally located them on the back of her desk chair. With a slight nod, she stood and conducted her morning routine. Pulling her dark t-shirt up, she examined her handiwork; rather concave abdomen, visible ribs. Running her other hand up the ladder-like promontories, she gave a slight, emotionless smirk; the first two ribs were visible again. She had still been making progress, it seemed; at the last time she had weighed and measured herself, she stood six foot and weighed in at 105lbs.
That weight had been her target for quite some time, and so she was pleased with her accomplishment. She had wanted to be down to 100 by the time she turned eighteen, but it didn’t seem like
that was going to happen any time soon, she thought with a growl. Quickly calming herself, she reminded herself that, if she were to be placed under observation for violent tendencies, she wouldn’t be able to restrict herself anymore. It was much easier to skip meals when the kitchen staff was too busy to notice that she didn’t show up. Her slight, emotionless smirk made a reappearance; the staff really was stupid, it seemed. And suddenly, remembering that she had been looking for her pants, she noted just how freaking cold it was.
Ignoring the other set of things (bed, desk, desk chair) which were identical to her own, she moved over to her desk. It quickly became apparent that skin – stretched taught over bone – wasn’t the only thing to subsist upon her body; a good portion of her weight was still due to her muscle mass, but that was about it. Slipping on her pants (loose mens jeans) on over her boxers, she tucked in her shirt, and then quickly belted them about her hips; she smirked when she noted that only the last self-made hole in the belt would keep her pants at her hips. Pulling her cross out from where it had fallen down the back of her shirt during the night, the tall blonde turned her desk chair around and settled into it. She slipped on a pair of plain white ankle socks, and then shoved her feet – just as boney as her hands – into grey mens running shoes.
Standing, she grabbed her gold, blazer-like jacket from the back of the chair, and slipped it on. Once she was done and satisfied with her clothing, she made her way over to the door of her room. Gripping the door handle, she hesitated for just a moment. When her anti-social tendencies threatened to kick in, she forced herself to open the door and step into the hall. Closing the door behind herself, she schooled her face blank, and set off towards the stairs. She made no conversation with anyone as she descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom of the stairs – aka the lobby of the boys’ dorms – she leaned against the wall, hands shoved into her pockets, face still blank. She knew what they saw; she knew they saw an impassive, emaciated boy with an expression that, when it showed even a hint of emotion, read,
‘Do I look like I gave a ********] She knew her emerald eyes blazed with cold, calculating emotionlessness; she knew she wasn’t friendly; she knew no-one liked her. Let them see, think, and do what they wanted, she didn’t care.
Let them judge her control – the bastards didn’t know her; she didn’t have to give a ********.
