I consider bus stops as the in-between times in which I am in a state of moving but not moving. The journey to another location but temporarily stalled. Waiting, it seems, is a journey in itself.
A girl sits beside me, statue-still in comparison to my usual tip-tap fidgeting. The only movement from her is where one hand rests upon the other, her thumbnail scratching the surface of her skin.
I fancy, if I could, being able to reach out with my mind and touch her soul. I think it would be pretty; she is very pretty.
Her stillness is contorted; silences vague. I want to split her skull and spill her delicate brain out, and examine the thoughts shining against my hands.
She stands as the bus approaches, counts out the appropriate change. She steps onto the bus and drops a coin whose clank shatters the silence – on her hands and knees, attempting to find it. Finally, blushing, having paid the driver, she is seated and breathes easier as the bus pulls away.
I am careful to apply foundation to the backs of my hands and my wrists before I go to dinner. My mother has hawk eyes. My imperfections are invites, items to snack on before the film begins.
The dinner is lovely, traditional, and the colours gleam golden and delicious. My aunt prattles about her newest obsession, quilting. My grandmother passes me a bowl; I serve myself.
“Go easy on those potatoes, dear,” my mother corrects my behaviour. “I think you might have gained a little …” Her mouth winces on the word “weight”.
I ran five kilometres this morning; my body is worn from an hour at the gym.
I am motionless for so long, my mother leans over the table, scrapes my plate clean and leaves the room only to return with a small bowl. She has placed in it half an apple, slices of carrot, beautifully sculpted celery sticks and three lettuce leaves.
Apparently it takes the body so much energy to burn raw carrots that by the time you have digested them, you have taken in no additional calories. Apparently.
They discuss patterns and colour matching. My grandmother is silent, munching away, tasty treats to chew with false dentures. I observe a stray slug that slowly devours my dinner for me.
She is not so still this time; nails agitating the surface of skin. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, bites her lip. She seems upset. It would be appropriate to offer sympathy.
Yet her waist is lean, even slouched; she is slim.
She has a dark spill of hair; it’s all tangled like she has been running her hands through it.
Her shoes interest me; black lace-up boots with blotches of acrylic colour stained into them. She reaches down to nudge a red patch, and it comes away in dusty pieces under her long nails, joining skin fragments.
We both turn as a voice calls down the street; a small red-haired girl with a wide smile is waltzing towards us.
She puts herself back together and grins fondly at her. They embrace, chatting excitably; voices chime in the silent street.
Her bus pulls up. She offers a promise of a phone call and leaves once more. When she is seated, she keeps smiling, somewhat manically, like it’s meant to get easier.
The boy who I am having coffee with compliments my lips; I am impressed that the strength of a bold lip colour has not fazed him.
“I am in my third year, studying theatre and classical music,” he informs me. “And I don’t care if it’s not practical – it’s what I love, so it’s what I do.”
I smile. “Third-year fine-arts student,” I say, and it’s like a private club.
He likes the fact I drink my coffee black. I neglect to mention how many calories I am saving on milk. I go to the bathroom; my dark hair has a tendency to be unruly and misbehave in polite company. On my way out, I bump into my friend Scarlet – well that’s what we call her because of her hair.
“Hello again, stranger,” she says with a wide smile. “Long time no see.”
When I return, I find my seat has been taken by the beautiful girl. She expels poise, and he is clearly smitten.
I perch at the bar next to them; she flirts, teasing gentle reactions from him with cute stories. Her nail polish is silver and gleams bright against the bone china cup.
“I’m accident prone,” he says with a grin. He pushes up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a long red scar. “Got this helping my dad paint the roof. Fell off the ladder,” he adds sheepishly.
She laughs at that, all smiling exterior.
“I see you’re just as bad,” he adds gesturing to the back of her hand.
We were skating on a frozen lake, and he just cracked the thin ice, sending her tumbling in. She gets to her feet in a swirl of hair and colour. She bumps my shoulder on her way out, and I can see the gleam of melted ice on her face.
I compose myself before strolling towards the table. “Sorry about that.”
He is flustered. “No, my fault.”
As he nervously chats about the band he’s in, I reach out and smudge the imprint of her lipstick off my cup.
I am trying to learn yoga, a task in which I did not expect to encounter as much strife as I so far have.
I have a book open in front of me as I repeat each movement, slowly. Balance was my first hurdle weeks ago when I began. Now I move towards more advanced movements requiring precession and flexibility.
It’s midmorning, and sunlight dapples the skin on my back. The park at this time is peaceful, easier to relax in than my damp flat. The only patrons are joggers and dog walkers.
On the warm grass I am lying, face to the sun, legs straight, when I spot her. She is a complex pose of limbs and arches; it looks easy, each muscle toned and perfect.
She holds these contorted positions for minutes, breathing easily, in and out. Once again I have the urge to reach out. Clamp my hands around her face and breathe in her essence.
She angles her face to the sun, and I notice the frailness that touches her frame. She was petite when I first saw her, and now her curves are broken, arches leaning into each other. There is a fragility drifting between bruises and scratch marks on her skin. She straightens up, bends backwards to crack her spine.
I see the moment she starts to over balance, the wave of nausea that trips her head. She falls backwards, her shoulder blades hit the grass, and I am panicked, attempting to access the situation. Did anything crack? Does anything hurt?
Slowly she unwinds her limbs, straightens out and feels the ridges of each muscle. The back of her head is tender, so are the shoulder blades that absorbed the main impact.
She can’t hide bruises on her back; she will not be able to reach the skin there.
Momentarily shocked by her own vulnerability, she sits there for some time, running her nails over her arms again and again. The repetition seems to sooth her; soon she is on her feet and moving away. Her tumble has put me off; I no longer have the energy to continue my practice.
The door slams as my soon-to-be sister-in-law storms out of the room.
I am standing in the dressing room, holding the bodice of my dress close to my chest – it’s too big for me. The dressmaker is pinning the fabric at the back.
“We fitted this a month ago,” she says bewildered. “How have you lost so much weight?”
I glance at my reflection in the full-length white mirror. I honestly cannot see this slender frame that is offering so much trouble for the bride-to-be.
“Stress probably,” I murmur.
She nods like this actually makes sense. I feel like it should not be so easy to lie.
My brother Matt is marrying his girlfriend Rebecca, who under normal circumstances is lovely. However, I am quickly learning even the nicest woman turns demon over her wedding.
The wedding is two weeks from now – this is meant to be our final fitting.
Rebecca could fit her dress, barely. She needed to lose half a kilogram for it to look the way it is meant to. She was not in the best mood when I tried my dress on.
“This is simple,” she said, assessing the situation. “You just need to eat a tonne of chocolate over the next two weeks and it will fit.”
I felt my oesophagus start to stitch itself together. “No, can’t we just alter it?”
The dressmaker critically evaluated the situation. “It will cost a few hundred to take in the bodice and the waist.”
Rebecca lost it. I explained calmly that I would pay the extra cost, but she still stormed out.
“Take no notice of the bride, dear,” the dressmaker said, as she helped me down from the stand. “She is probably just upset that she doesn’t have your problem.”
After she has packed up, I stand in front of the mirror. Bridesmaid dresses have bad reputations, but Rebecca has picked beauties. Birds of paradise among flocks of sparrows. They are apricot silk, falling towards the ground in flowing layers. Simple thin straps, high neckline, slightly shorter hem in the front. The colour compliments my hair and summer tan.
The door opens behind me, and the girl appears, carrying several pairs of beautiful heeled shoes. She catches sight of me, and it’s perfection. Her eyes wander, starting at my face and hair, travelling down my shoulders, following the lines of my leanness, down to the hem of the dress and back up again. Her eyes are spiralling out of control; the blue is wandering towards me. I can see my reflection shining there, and I feel like I am being seen for the very first time.
She walks towards me and kneels in front of me. As she lines the pretty shoes up in front of me and compares them to my dress, my colouring, I am taken by the urge to reach out to her. I can see the fragile parting line of her hair, and I want to trace a finger down it. Press into her skull and take all those pretty brain cells. It’s closer than it has ever been before.
She finally decides on a pair of shoes. Silver jewelled embroidery cover their exterior. She eases them onto my feet, her hand holding mine. My balance is not needed to be kept; however, I have mastered yoga. I can see the scars on her wrist and hands, and the imperfection is perfect; they seem to glow.
She looks up at me and smiles. Still holding my hand she moves it to her mouth and kisses the back.
“You are beautiful,” she whispers.
And I believe her.
There is silver on her face – tears flow easily, the last blood of battle is being spilt, the storm is dying away leaving ashes breathing on the horizon. She rubs her cheek against my hand, and her face comes away streaked, my foundation smudged into her skin. We all hide our flaws so well.
Her other hand strays to my waist, caresses down the shape of muscles and skin under soft fabric. I am the strength in the moment, the picked-clean carcass bones, the perfection finally achieved.
I kneel to her, down on her level, brush my lips against her temple. Kneeling, our foreheads pressed together, I can feel her pulse fluttering so close, so close. I still her heart, and she opens her mouth to me. I take her breath, her essence. I move forward and part the distance between her thoughts, taking all of them.
I find myself enjoying taking from her. That perfect pretty girl is my submissive. I’m the pretty one now.
I ate breakfast today. Not much. Half an orange. Not much, but more than usual. Enough that when my arms close around her shoulders and my teeth find her throat, I am stronger than her.
She doesn’t scream as I carve a chunk of flesh from her neck, blood pulsing against my tongue. She falls backwards, me on top of her, lapping the liquid in a frenzy, because nothing has ever tasted like this before.
She is gasping, and with one hand I hold her jaw, pinning her to the ground whilst my other circles her ribs. I squeeze, tighter, feeling my head spin from the exertion. Then I feel the hollow bird-bone sound of her rib cage caving in on itself.
She sighs then – to me that is consent. I bite deeper, harder, again and again, and I’m trying not to cry because my stomach hurts. It’s not use to this amount of food.
There’s blood streaming from my mouth, running down my chest when I rear up. I can feel strips of meat between my teeth. The dressmaker has left a pair of lethal-looking silver scissors on the bench, and I love the way they gleam.
I take the hilt of the scissors and stare down at the pretty girl; I kneel next to her and caress her face. It’s growing cold, eyes glazing over. I turn her head so she won’t see. Then I smash the blades down upon her delicate skull.
I like the way it starts to shatter against my hand.
Then I am peeling aside the layers of bone and gore, and it’s not as pretty as I hoped; instead, I feel betrayed. A child, you eye up the largest present that sits for weeks under the tree, only to find upon unwrapping a pair of knitted socks.
She doesn’t taste good anymore. The blood isn’t rich; rather she is chewy, and the vessels pop against my tongue. As I smear brain cell upon the floor, I see sparks of memories, the things that are easier to forget.
Emaciation tastes cold, starvation feels exhausting, bruising is a shade of purple devastation to examine.
I don’t think it occurs to people how difficult it is to control animal instincts.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and I hope my mother doesn’t see me. And then I laugh, gazing down at all the blood and mess. It’s like the inside of a slaughter house, the cliché moment in a gore fest of a horror film.
It’s stupid, completely ridiculous how I do this. How I cannot fathom contentment. Why do I believe I deserve to take up less space than other people? Am I not worthy of nourishment?
I look to the beautiful mirrors, and the blood is all I can see and the hunks of brain I have smeared up to my elbows. I try to stand but the heels are too high.
I fall against her body as light spins, shadows gleam and voices dim in the darkening room of freak-house mirrors that balloon and shrink proportions in a twisted game of self-image.
There is a body grotesque in its bizarre perfection. I am what no one else had the strength to be.
Do you still think I am fat, Mummy?
I wish I had taken more of her. I wish I could take it all back. I wish there had been someone there to make me stop and consider.
I wonder, dreamily, if other girls in the last moments of perfection, look down at themselves and pity. And I wonder the same things that will echo in everybody else’s minds.
What have we done to ourselves?