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“Riley, your dinner is ready,” Miss Miller calls out from behind me, as I run up the stairs.
Pausing on the last step, I turn around to face the housekeeper. “My parents—
“They will be home late,” she answers stoically before I can even finish my sentence. Olivia Miller is a tall, middle-aged woman. Her reddish hair is piled up on top of her head, in a tight, sleek bun and her dress has no wrinkles. She is the perfect image of immaculate and flawless. She was forty-five when she first started working for us, and at first glance, I thought she was a sweet, kind woman. That impression barely lasted a week. Now, ten years later, I can reaffirm that Miss Miller is simply my mother’s shadow. Her smile is sweet, yet empty, but her eyes — it’s always been her eyes. They have no trace of warmth in them.
I nod. “I’ll have dinner in my room then.”
I don’t wait for her answer before walking away. Once I'm in my room, I rush to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I practically tear off my clothes, and in my haste, I stumble into the shower. The water is almost scolding, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Scrubbing myself with urgency, I don’t stop until my skin is red and sensitive to touch. Then I wash between my legs, where I’m still sore and hurting. I stay under the spraying water until it turns cold, and only then do I shut it off and exit.
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?
