Perfect Bulimic

The perfect girl sits at the grey lunch table with her perfect friends. She takes a bite of canteen food, and tosses her perfect hair back, smiling her perfect smile and laughing her perfect laugh.

She's everything you ever wanted to be; she's perfect. She's got the looks, the personality, the friends, the money, the clothes, the body.

She says something to the guy sitting across from her as she tosses her trash into the bin, and then carefully wipes her perfect hands. He stares at her, the pure adoration in his eyes reflecting her perfect face.

The perfect girl notices, and grows quiet, her perfect mouth closing. She stands; brushing down her perfect clothes and excusing herself.

Hurrying into the toilet, her perfect eyes scan and check the empty stall. Her perfect heels click as she walks into one, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Later, she walks out, and washes her hands. She dries them, reapplies her perfect lip gloss, checks her reflection and lightly sprays her perfect perfume.

As she glides out, her hands rest for a second on her hipbones, sharp and angular. She smiles and the perfect amount of perfume covers the hovering scent of vomit.

A/N: I wasn't sure about this one, whether to upload it or not. So please tell me if you think I should have. B.