His Vision of Perfection, a vignette by Rachel Reardon

It's one of those hot, sticky days. The kind that leads to sitting around in just boxers all day with the air conditioning on as high as it can go. The seasons are weird here. It's either too hot or too cold, not often anything in between.

I lie awake in bed for a long time early in the morning, needing more sleep but too uncomfortable to relax because of the heat. I reluctantly get up and walk to the bathroom to take a shower.

He's staring at himself in the mirror and his expression is blank, as if in a trance. I say his name and he quickly turns to look at me. "Good morning," he says quietly. He glances briefly at his reflection again, frowning at how it doesn’t measure up to his vision of perfection. Not even close.

"Good morning," I reply, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Stop doing this."

"Doing what?" he asks dryly.

"Hating yourself."

He turns to his reflection. He looks himself up and down, and asks "Is this real?"

I look at him for a few long moments, taking in the sight of his emaciated body, wearing only a pair of jeans that are now much too big for him, his skin glistening with sweat. He's a grotesque picture. His bones stick out so sharply that it seems they might rip through his skin if he moves them too quickly. He's all bones and skin, and I used to not be able to look at him if he wasn't fully clothed. I've gotten used to it from living with him, I guess.

"Yes," I say, though I'm confirming to myself what I'm seeing and not what he's seeing.

He understands. "Please, don't tell me I'm getting too thin. I don't want to hear it, man."

"It's true."

He glares at me. "I don't think that's your call."

"What am I supposed to do? Just keep my mouth shut and let you keep believing what you’re telling yourself, even though you'll think you're fat no matter what weight you are?"

"I don't think I'm fat," he says indignantly. "I just don’t think I’m really too skinny like people keep saying I am. I mean, I know they just say it because they're upset that I starve myself."

"No, that's not why they say it. Look at yourself again. If you're not really, really skinny, then I must be obese."

"I know what you're trying to do, so just stop. It's not that easy."

"I know that."

"Then why do you even bother?"

"Because I'd try anything to help you get better. I care too much to watch you do this to yourself."

"Doing this to myself is the only thing that makes me feel good anymore," he says simply.

I go silent. Nothing I say will change anything anyway.

"And lately I'm not seeing enough bones," he adds, looking in the mirror and moving his hands over his frail-looking chest and jutting ribcage, and he becomes expressionless again.

There will never be enough bones showing. Except for when he's dead, maybe—just a skeleton in the ground.

Maybe when he's nothing but bones he'll be skinny enough. Perfect, even.