Waiting To Be Beautiful

• Jess Furlani, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2009

The hardest bit is the waiting. Waiting all night to skip breakfast, waiting for lunchtime so I can purposely not eat while everyone around me does, waiting for dinner all through the afternoon, waiting to scrape the last mouthful off my plate and into my mouth. But the endless waiting pays off. Only ten more kilos until I’m beautiful. I will just have to keep waiting.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I see a lump of fat squeezed into underwear much too small for her. Not the thin, toned and perfectly tanned body of the other 16-year old girls at my school. They saunter around the canteen with their salads and diet Cokes, thinking they are better than everyone else.
I turn to the side, tugging the excess skin around my thighs. I’ve been standing here for an hour, as if continuing to stare at my entirely unappealing body will make it thinner. I don’t want to turn out like the girls you see in MacDonald’s everyday. Their stomachs push out against their clothes, breasts held tight in oversized bras and pudgy fingers snatching at fries. I am not like them. Maybe if I lose this unsightly accumulation of wobbly, dimpled puppy-fat, I could be beautiful.
It is exhausting having to walk to school everyday. The winter wind is a spiteful schoolgirl, pinching and biting me continually. Still, it is completely worth it. I watch everyone else unwrapping their fattening sandwiches, filling their mouths with chunks of pies and handfuls of salty chips. I sit quietly, waiting for the bell to ring. I am starting to feel light-headed from not eating, but the clean feeling of hunger reminds me that it is all worthwhile.
I can’t stop myself from thinking about food. I thought that losing weight would be faster. Maybe I’m not doing it right. I have joined the gym around the corner from my house and I go there everyday and run endless miles on the treadmill. When I finish running I can barely stand. My legs shake so much that I have to sit down or risk fainting on the spot. It has become agony to stand for more than a few minutes. My heart pounds in my chest, seemingly trying to break free of my ribcage. Furry, black spots dance crazily before my eyes. The constant groaning from my stomach kicks up a notch, announcing to everyone that I am hungry. Very, very hungry. But I wait patiently until the spots begin to fade and my breath returns to me. I am always waiting. I think another five kilos and I will be beautiful.
Today I passed out in class. I stood up to go to the toilet and my vision collapsed in on me. My pulse echoed loudly in my head, the flesh behind my eyes grew thicker and expanded to bursting point. My hands were clammy; the air had suddenly become stifling. The furry black spots reappear and I try desperately to see around them. Then I open my eyes and I was looking at the entire class crowded around me. I saw two girls staring, fascinated by me and my hip bones, jutting sharply out from under my jeans. I smiled to myself at how jealous they must be. The teacher was saying something, but all I heard was the blood racing through my head and the slow whisper of my breath.
I’m down to 36 kilos now. Still not good enough. I have somehow become a muted version of my old self. My dark hair has faded to a mousey brown. It is a mane of dead grass in summer, growing from my scalp. It’s thin, coarse and almost crunches when I touch it. My once bright blue eyes have aged and become grey and dull. I gaze listlessly at those rare people who talk to me, feigning attention. My mind is, like always, preoccupied with food. Dark, purplish bruises ring my eyes, hollowing them into deep concaves.
My nails are so brittle that they barely grow out of the nail bed, thick white streaks slashed across them. My body has grown a soft, silky covering of hair on my back and torso. All my muscles have dissolved into nothing, leaving my bones alone. My teeth are clearly outlined beneath my rough, alabaster skin. My face has stretched into a living skull, showing what should be hidden. I am all angles. Any hint of a soft curve faded weeks ago.
I can smell my rancid breath and taste it on my tongue every time I open my mouth and I know that others can smell it too. It’s the scent of my insides slowly rotting. My body is retreating in on itself, pulling deeper and deeper into the empty abyss that is my stomach.
But the strange thing is, I feel clean. Cold, clean and pure. But it’s still not good enough. It is slow, becoming beautiful. But I can wait.