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Kristina Riggle Short Stories |
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Thinspiration I hate her. She left that donut on the counter to tempt me, to make me fat and disgusting and worthless. I stand in my underwear in front of the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I can see some of my ribs as they jut with righteous sharpness over my belly, which still has a lazy softness. I inhale so my stomach caves in, and the corners of my hips point back at me in the mirror, peeking out from above my panties. It's close to what I want, but without having to hold my breath. I let out the air with a gush and clutch the edge of my dresser so I don't pass out. I could get through this if I had my ana girls with me, but she unplugged the Internet. Cancelled the service. I got lazy about hiding my Internet tracks. She snuck into my room and went into my favorites list. The computer remembered my passwords, so she read all my postings about fasting and goal weights and practicing anorexia. My stomach is crying with that dull, sour ache of hunger. I just gulp my water and don't go into the kitchen. In fact, I'll do more sit-ups tonight for even thinking about that donut. I could handle this with the Internet, I could post a message to my Internet friends, my other friends who are anorexic by choice. We are not diseased, we are powerful and in control of our bodies. We eat to live, not live to eat. Hunger hurts but starvation works, that's what we all say. They could help me through it, but she has cut me off from them. I open my bedroom window and sit on the top of my desk so that I'm right next to the screen. This way the smoke goes out the window and she can't smell it in here. The smoke feels good in my lungs, warm and tickly. And I get to put something in my mouth that has no calories. The cigarette deadens my tastebuds, too. So much the better. Control, that's what this is. Discipline. I feel desperate without my Internet friends. My ana girls. When I'm with them, I don't feel like a freak, which is how she makes me feel. Together, we are like a group of ancient mystic monks, who fast for discipline and control and power. We have our own scriptures, and poems, and artwork, all for the goddess Ana. My hand is shaking and I feel light-headed. I love this feeling, it feels virtuous and strong, and yet I'm delicate, like a fairy. I can't stop thinking of that donut though. I feel my resolve weaken. I cannot tolerate these feelings. I push the burning cigarette straight onto the skin of my thigh. Hot tears spring to my eyes and I bite my tongue so I won't scream out loud. ### This story was first published in The Sidewalk's End, November 2003 ( www.wtse.net ) |
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