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In my head, my mother oinks, her nose scrunching and her upper lip curling over her teeth.
That's it, piggy, she taunts.Gobble it up.
God, I feel like I'm going to be sick.
I swallow again, and it catches in my throat and makes me cough, but Headmistress hasn't removed her hands, so it never leaves my mouth. Finally, I choke it all down with one more swallow.
"Good," she says, finally removing her damn hands. "Starting tomorrow, check in at the nurse's station for morning weigh-ins. On days you meet with me, you may weigh yourself in here. I'll see you again next week, same day, same time. Skip a session with me, Ms. Bardot, or make me wait on you, and I'll lock you up where we keep the really bad ones. Do you understand?"
I nod, trying not to be sick, as she opens the door, shoves me at the pair of waiting guards, and says, "Get this one away from me."
8
AVERY
Ilay in my bed in my room, thinking about my mother. The thick blanket is itchy against my skin, but it keeps the chill away. The world outside remains a wintry white, and the cold seeps through the stone, snaking through the cracks and chips and sucking away at my warmth. It was blazing in here a few days ago, and now it's freezing. The cynic in me wonders if they do it on purpose, trying to make us miserable enough to comply.
My mother would be proud of their mind games, and fuck, now I'm thinking about her again. She has to be my least favorite thing to think about too. It's the weekend, and I should be happy because at least that means I don't have to see the creep—well, in class, at least.
I don't have to feel his black-eyed stare boring into the side of my temple, scattering starbursts across my skin until I'm burning up while I try to pay attention.
Or sit next to him while his large hand lays heavy on my knee as his beautiful mouth tells me all the scary things I need to hear to make me eat.
Or stare back at him, my gaze lingering too long, when he looks right back at me and doesn't even blink.
I should be happy.
Iamhappy, dammit, though right now I don't want to be alone with my thoughts. Between lunch with the creep and my thoughts, I might actually choose the creep at this point. I don't know if that means he isn't so bad or if my thoughts are downright murderous. Probably a little of both, though I'd never admit it, not to Gabe, at least.
I shouldn't call him that.
He should be the creep, my stalker, the weirdo, or the freak. Calling him by his name makes him human, forging a connection.
Stop it, Avery! Shut. It. Down.
Today was a bad day. I had another weigh-in this morning with Headmistress Graves, and after it, I had to eat another plate of the things she calls nutritional cubes. This time, she made me eat ten of them, and I barely managed to keep them down for twenty minutes before I snuck into the bathroom during a fight in the hallway. With my hands on either side of the disgusting toilet bowl and the cold tile hard against my knees, I purged every single last one. They weren't sweet coming up, and it made me retch even harder until my jaw hurt and my throat burned.
Then to top it all off, I had to play another day of keep away with the pyromaniac. He tries to make me do what he wants, and I try to stay away, not that it does much good. If I refuse, he takes out his lighter and threatens to set me on fire, giving me an impossible choice.
At lunch, he didn't make me eat the whole tray today. I think he actually felt bad for me, given that the blond one, his friend Kill, told him to cut me a break since I didn't just smell like death today. I looked like it too. That was a fantastic way to commemorate receiving three text messages from my mother this morning.
The first was a message that sounded straight from her psychic-turned-spirit-guide, probably trying to kill off any remaining dregs of motherly instinct.
Mom
Remember that time we went to visit La Leaumonte? That was fun.
For the record, no, it wasn't. It was fun for her. She got to introduce me to her spin instructor at the upscale gym. Then she pointed out which parts of me she wanted him to focus on fixing for the next hour.
I didn't reply to her text, so as is her pattern, she continued to harass me.
Next, she sent me a photograph I didn't even know she had taken that day of me sweaty, disgustingly out of breath, and as red-faced as a politician surprised by his own sex scandal.
I didn't reply to that one either. Years ago, I learned to not interact when she gets in one of her moods. If I show a reaction, she'll keep going for the entire day. It's like being in two high schools at once with two sets of bullies. God knows she never grew out of being the mean girl. I guess it makes her feel powerful, picking on me.
I wasn't the daughter she hoped for. As a child, I didn't care about ballet or beauty pageants. I tried to, for her, but it wasn't good enough. I wanted to play in the mud and climb trees in the backyard. I didn't fit her preconceived notion of what I should be. She wanted me to become her mini-me, but I wanted to be me instead.
Not even thirty minutes after the picture, she sent my third punishment for being born.
