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“Do you not have anything better to do right now?” I ask her as she cackles at the photos on the walls.
“Better than this? Not fuckin’ likely, mate,” she snorts.
It’s only then that I notice a note sitting suspiciously on the top of my makeup bag.
I know exactly who it’s from the moment I see it.
Evian.
Good luck today, Kara! Never forget where you came from, it says.
Which would maybe be nice, if she hadn’t included a little doodle of a whale beneath her words.
I might have lost all the weight, but right now I feel fatter than ever.
And any minute now, I’m going to have to go out on that stage and show my disgusting fucking body off to the crowd—and the entire fucking world to boot.
Kara
My legs refuse to fucking move. I can hear the announcement for the contestants to go out onto the stage, but it’s as if I’ve grown roots here behind the curtain. Every pore of my body feels filled with fucking lead.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I lost the weight. I gained the muscle.
But there’s no escaping who I once was.
Suck it up princess, I try and tell myself and take a deep fucking breath. One foot in front of the other the way you’ve practiced. Off you go.
I try to imagine what the boys would say. Probably something like, Fuck it, Kara, you’re hot, suck my dick, babe.
It’s not a bad idea, but it’s not exactly, y’know…helpful right now.
Neither of them would let me get away with hiding in my dressing room, though. Both of them would reassure me and shower me with compliments, I bet.
Come on, Kara. I try a little mental nudging.
It’ll probably take more than a nudge. Right now, I feel heavier than ever. The images that Evian sent to my dressing room are impossible to shake off from my mind—and now, I feel fatter than ever. At the worst possible moment, too.
Inside, I’m just a fucking shadow of the woman I was when I won Miss Sexy USA.
I miss that bitch. She was hot. She was confident.
And she wouldn’t have let Evian get to her like this.
I miss Chase and Eric, too. I don’t need a man to make me feel good about myself…but right now, I’m at a fucking low point. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a little pick-me-up.
Fat feet. Fat knees. Fat thighs.
Fat, fat, fat. It’s all I can think about right now.
I need to walk perfectly across that stage in just a few moments, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to manage it.
Fat does not walk. Fat wobbles. Fat rolls.
Why don’t you fucking try rolling out onto stage then? a nasty little voice taunts. I don’t know where the fuck it came from, but it sounds awfully like my ex-boss. I need to quash it before it gets the better of me.
There’s no fucking way I’m going to be able to walk the entire length of the catwalk poised and with elegance and confidence.
I mean, like, how many face plants have I had already? I don’t need another addition to the Kara Gilmore Blooper Reel.
