Author's Note: Salutations, all FictionPress-ists! I am WickedJelly (or Jelly, whatever floats your boat) and I am here to present you with my first original fiction. Although I do write FanFiction. Well, I guess I have written a few original fictions on Quizilla (something I don't recommend, although I bet none of you have) but that was one of those periods in my short life that I don't think highly of. :P Ah, well. So…read, review, enjoy, and feel free to con-crit!
(Oh, and one more thing: I let my younger sister read this because she wanted to, and she said the first "He told me I was fat" was unnecessary because then I go on to say, "Then he told me I was fat." So opinions, please?)
He was seventeen. He was handsome. He was nice. He was popular. He was the guy all the girls wanted, and I had him.
He told me I was fat.
I was your average sixteen-year-old girl: stressed over schoolwork, hung out with friends every weekend, and thought parents were the end of the world. But I never cared what I looked like.
Then he told me I was fat.
Afterward, I looked in the mirror. It was like I had never seen my true colors: fat was hanging off my skin, everywhere, enough to cover another person. And I had two chins. How could I not have known? How could I have gone to school today, gone on a date, not noticing that I looked disgusting? I was disgusted. I vowed that unless I never wanted to show my face in public again, I would be thin. I would be beautiful.
He told me I was fat.
For the next couple of weeks I tried diet after diet: South Beach, Zone, Weight Watchers. But none of them worked. I was still disgustingly overweight. I was obese. I was becoming yet another statistic for those obesity surveys. And I couldn't let that happen.
He told me I was fat.
Then I started to lower my food intake. Breakfast: energy bar. Lunch: tuna sandwich on whole-wheat bread and apple. Dinner: whatever I was served, only half that.
He told me I was fat.
Soon breakfast was only a banana. Lunch became carrot sticks and an apple. I eventually learned that scooting food around your plate makes it look like you're eating. And I did eat, but only a few peas. Maybe a small chunk of potato.
He told me I was fat.
A couple of days later I went to our bathroom to see how much weight I'd lost: seven pounds. Only seven pounds. Who was I, Bertha Butt? But the next day he came up to me and told me I looked great. I smiled and said thanks. He invited me out to dinner for the next night. I accepted, ecstatic.
He told me I was fat.
The same day I allowed myself a cupcake. It was my best friend's birthday. I deserved a prize for my hard work, didn't I?
He told me I was fat.
The following night was our date. I hadn't eaten at all that day except for a single carrot stick, furious at myself for losing ground so easily. I had gained two pounds that day after eating the cupcake. Two whole pounds. Two whole pounds of fat, frosting fat, fluffy cake fat, two whole pounds of sugar. And fat. Lots of fat. So by the time I reached the restaurant, I was starving. I tore off a chunk of Italian bread and bit into it hungrily. He told me I was eating like a pig. He told me that if I were to keep that up, I'd gain back all the weight. He told me I looked beautiful.
He told me I was fat.
I ran into the bathroom and locked myself into a stall. I put a finger down my throat. It was like I had never eaten that bread. I grabbed a peppermint from the basket and walked back to the table, ignoring the burning of my throat.
He told me I was fat.
He drove me home and I struggled not to cry. He walked me up to the door, even in the pouring rain. He asked me if I was crying. I told him no. He smiled and kissed me goodbye and drove off in his fancy sports car. I ran up to my room and slammed the door, yelling at my parents to fuck off and leave me alone. I cried myself to sleep.
He told me I was fat.
The following day began the weekend. I spent both afternoons exercising. Five, six, seven miles an hour on the treadmill without stopping. Two hours went by. Sweat dripped off my forehead, my chin, my back. I smiled. Goodbye, fat. I was starving, but I didn't care. The hunger cramps were excruciating, but I didn't care. There's no beauty without pain, I once heard, and they were right. I had to do this.
He told me I was fat.
One night it was my little sister's birthday party. Little kids everywhere. Tall ones, short ones, blonde-haired, brown-haired, dark-skinned and light-skinned, all running around with globs of chocolate frosting coating their faces. It was nauseating. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to slap some sense in them. Didn't they know how fattening frosting was? They were going to grow up to be fat kids. Fat, fat, fat. Fat would be rolling off their face and they would look repulsive. They would be fat. Especially that one girl, the one who was already looking rather pudgy. Disgusting kids, they were all so disgusting.
He told me I was fat.
My mom handed me a piece of cake. I looked at it, willing myself not to throw up. Then I turned around. She walked up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. Eat, she said, she told me to eat it. Eat that? Eat that fat? I looked at it again. There were my fat thighs, resting on a pink plastic plate. I said no, I wasn't hungry. She said I had to. She said I was looking too thin. She said I hadn't been eating enough lately. I grabbed it from her. I dug my fork into the piece of fat and opened my mouth, letting her see me swallow the pieces. She looked away. I had to pee, I said. I went to the bathroom and locked myself into a stall. No more cake.
He told me I was fat.
My mom told me if I wasn't eating, she would take me to the doctor. I had to eat an apple. An apple a day. An apple a day to keep the doctor away. Doctors, monsters who would ruin my plan. I couldn't let them win. I had to win. It was my body. My game, my rules. No one could stop me. Screw you, mom. Screw you, mister doctor. I was going to win.
He told me I was fat.
Fifteen pounds now, I lost fifteen pounds. We went out again last night. We saw a movie. He had asked me if I wanted popcorn. No, I had said, I had eaten beforehand. He had smiled. You look beautiful tonight, he had said. I'd thanked him, then I'd smiled: my plan was working. I was going to win.
He told me I was fat.
I used to be one of the best athletes in gym, but lately I had been too tired to put forward my best effort. Now I usually just sat on the sidelines and watched. Today we were playing soccer. I used to love soccer. But today I sat. My gym teacher came up to me. She asked me if anything was wrong. Wrong? I wanted to laugh. Nothing was wrong. I was winning the game. But I didn't say that, I couldn't. This was my plan and my plan only. No, I said, everything is fine. I threw in a smile. She gave me a look. I knew what she was thinking because I've been getting it a lot these days. But these people don't know what they're talking about. They're not playing my game. I'm fine, I said. She smiled back and told me that if anything did go wrong, I was to talk to her. Talk? Not to you, fat lady.
He told me I was fat.
I was babysitting my sister. She wanted dinner. Dinner. Food. Macaroni and cheese. Oh god, cheese. I wanted to throw up, but I didn't. I smiled and gave her the plate of noodles and cheese full of carbs and calories and fat. She asked me if I was hungry. I said I was fine. She smiled and said, you're never hungry, so you must have super powers! I smiled back. Yes, I said, I do. It's my own special magic. I left her to go upstairs to my scale. I had now lost a total of twenty five pounds since I started my game. Had I won it yet? Had I done well enough? I looked in the mirror. Oh god, look at all that. All that fat. No, I had not won the game. I was still losing. I had to work harder.
He told me I was fat.
The next afternoon after school I went to his house. He said I looked great, that I was making a big improvement. I thanked him. We went to his couch and watched a movie. Soon his lips were on mine, really on mine. He loved me, didn't he? He did. It was because I was beautiful. I was thin. So had I won the game yet? I asked him if her had anything to eat; I was hungry. He gave me a look. Nothing for you, he said. Would I like water instead? Yes, I would. I watched as he made himself a bowl of popcorn. He ate it like a pig. I wanted to shout, you can eat like a pig but I can't? You can stuff your face but I can't? But I didn't. I was thin and beautiful.
He told me I was fat.
I was making my sister dinner again. I was making her a grilled cheese sandwich…I was on the floor. The bread was on the floor, too. I stood up quickly. Good, she hadn't seen. And I hadn't, either. I could forget. It was just one obstacle, just one. But I was stronger than that.
He told me I was fat.
The next day at school my best friend came to my locker. She looked serious. I asked her what was wrong, had she flunked her AP test? No, she said, I'm worried. I asked her about what. She said, you. I laughed. I said I was fine. I told her not to worry. You need help, she said. Then I glared at her. I told her to fuck off. I expected her to tell me the same, but she didn't. She only said I should go see the counselor. That I was loosing control. Please? Just for her? No, I wouldn't. I was fine.
He told me I was fat.
I went to bed that night, replaying the conversation in my head. It got me even angrier. I didn't need help because help was cheating and cheating meant forfeiture of the game. I had to win. I ate a whole quart of ice cream from our freezer, all by myself, and then threw it up. See? I had control.
He told me I was fat.
I fainted again, going from the bathroom to my room. My mom was home. She shouted to ask if I was okay. Yes, I said, I just tripped. But I wasn't okay, not really. I had gained two pounds back even after I threw up. God, what was wrong with me? I vowed to punish myself the next day. I wouldn't even drink.
He told me I was fat.
I woke up the next morning. I was cold. Very cold. And it was unnaturally dark. Then I saw my mom and my dad and my little sister hanging over me. I screamed at them to get out of my room. But I didn't, not really. I couldn't. No words came out. And hey, where was I? This wasn't my bed. This wasn't even my room. I was in white sheets; mine were light blue. I got scared. Had I been kidnapped? I looked back up at my family. They were crying. What's wrong? I wanted to ask. But again, I couldn't. I felt myself start to cry, but I didn't. There was nothing to cry with. I wasn't anything, really. I felt a little hand grasp mine own. My sister's. She asked me why there was a bad guy in my body. A bad guy? What? There wasn't anything in my body. Then I heard another voice, a stranger's: anorexia and a mild case of bulimia. Will she survive? That was my mother. She sounded sadder than ever and I wanted to say, it's okay! I'm here. The nurse said, no, she's too far gone; her body has nothing to fight with. More sobbing. Then they were gone and I heard nothing. I was nothing. I was dead.
And it was all because he told me I was fat.