She sucks in her breath and glances up, waiting for the numbers beneath her to change and display to her what's been so vitally important since... God knows how long, really. Except she didn't believe in this religious bullshit so no one would ever know, it seemed.

Daring to glance down, heart in her throat, she sees the numbers and her heart slumps all the way down to her toes. She's gained four pounds and while her therapist would encourage that, congratulate her on it, really, she's never felt more ugly.

She gently steps off the scale and goes to look in the mirror. In nothing but undergarments, she feels bloated and disgusting. She tries to snap herself out of that reverie, remind herself that she's still skinnier than most... though not all.

She sucks in and her ribs stick out and only that brings a smile to her face. She can't explain it, never could. The sick, masochistic addiction that plagues her and never seems to go away. She couldn't even tell you when it started, just that it did and she's never looked back since.

She recalls the A that wasn't satisfactory enough; only an A plus would do. So she strived and strived and eventually, succeeded. No one ever said she didn't have a brain. She has to be smart, to be as cruel as she can be. Which brings her to another point. Cruelty. It was so much easier than anything else, looking for harsh words to say as opposed to kind ones. To push away people instead of accept them. Loneliness was hollow and empty but she'd take it any day over the vulnerability that came with friendship.

Control. She had to have total control over everything. Her looks, her "friendships", her emotions. This was her control, a twisted type of it because she couldn't stop now. She tells herself it's what she wants and she can stop anytime she pleases but it's a lie that she sees through. That was the problem with lying to yourself.

And when it sets it, that most of everything she knows in life is a perfect concocted lie, that cold, foreign feeling of crying sets in for the first time in so long and she's so goddamn horrified because crying is for the weak and she'd like to believe she's not weak.

Another lie. But maybe if she tells herself that enough, she'll start to believe it. A little.

A sob arises from her throat and she holds on to the counter in front of the mirror, in front of that glorious, dastardly mirror to steady herself. They win, however, and she slumps down, still holding the counter top until she lets go and turns herself around in a swift movement so she's leaned against it.

No one is home. Therefore, it's her cries echo throughout the empty halls of the house.

Anger burns brightly within her, as brightly as her hunger. Both are feelings she's come to know so well it's pathetic. Neither leave her. The hunger, at least, can be fulfilled. The anger cannot. It will never ease. It remains there and it haunts her and it makes her scream and act out and insult everyone in a radius because even if her insecurities claw inside of her, she can claw at others. If she has a chance to make others feel pathetic and worthless, she will just so she doesn't. And it does make her feel better at the end of the day, to pinpoint someone elses flaws and blow them up because she does that to herself enough and it's always nice to have a break.

She can't remember when this anger started to exist. Maybe it's existed since Day 1. Day one of her life. Of her death. Because really, the moment you're born, you start dying. And she figures that's how you know you're a truly pessimistic person. To be able to regard it like that.

The crying levels intensify and become so great that she next thing she knows, she's bent over the toilet seat and puking up nothing. Puking is a disgusting habit and if she can possibly help it, she won't. And now her insides feel more empty and the ache for food sparks a little.
Flushing the toilet, she closes her eyes and wonders when it got to be like this. When she truly became the most fucked up girl around. If it'll ever stop, if she'll ever reach out and put an end to this dizzy never-ending circle. If, when, how. She doesn't know and the fear from that is possibly the one that comes in second.

She's out of control but she'll never blatantly admit it to anyone.

To herself.

And this thing, this i monster /i that dwells inside of her fuels off her anger. And the more she has, the bigger it gets and the harder it'll be to destroy. And one day, there will come a point of no return where she can't destroy it. Where she'll sit idly and watch it, feel it take her whole.

She'll quietly self-destruct and nobody will ever, ever know.