Post by Black Sakura on Sept 2, 2006 17:44:33 GMT -5
Christine stood in front of the mirror in naught but a thin flesh-colored silk slip. Her hands ran through her thick, rich brown hair, moving the lovely chocolate locks of it off of her face. She bent closer to the mirror and looked at her face closely, looking for pimples. Her skin was delicate and pale, and nearly unmarred at all. Her large, sympathetic oceanic eyes fluttered as her glance caught their reflection. She liked her eyes a lot. Her lips were average, nothing extraordinary, and her chin was curved and smooth. Her face was quite round overall.
Her gaze went on down from her head to her well-proportioned bust and stomach. Christine wasn't fat at all, just pleasantly filled-in. Nevertheless, in her view, she was desperately overweight.
"Ew..." she muttered, putting her long-fingered hand to her stomach to hide it from the mirror. She didn't succeed. With a deep sigh, Christine leant against the wall, staring down at the floor. A bit of stomach blocked her view just a tad, but she could still see her feet plainly. Christine recalled once that she had heard someone on the radio say that 'if you can see your feet, you're not overweight.' Well, even with this reassuring thought, Christine couldn't change her view of herself. Why was this world so cruel as to curse her with such an affliction? Every other girl at school wasn't half as curvy, wasn't half as plump (with the exception of a few, who were morbidly obese). What mandated that she should be an outsider with too much flesh when hundreds of others were positively sticks? Angrily, Christine grabbed a fistful of flab from her stomach, wanting to rip the flesh right off her body. If it were only so easy, she would have done it.
Christine understood that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but she believed steadfastly that if you consider yourself to be beautiful, then you are. It was all a matter of mere conception and confidence. But her problem was that she believed herself to be terribly ugly in her present state. She knew she had the potential to be quite pretty indeed, but in her mind, she would only achieve such by being thin.
Surreptitiously, Christine stole a glance at a poster of the popular celebrity singer, Maligne Trobidor, which she kept on her wall. Maligne looked almost exactly like Christine--brown hair in roughly the same haircut, dark blue eyes, and china skin. Maligne was, too, not much younger than Christine; there was perhaps a month between them. The only major difference between Maligne and Christine in appearance was the amount of meat on them; Maligne was anorexic and, consequently, had very little of anything on her. To Christine, however, Maligne was the epitome of perfect beauty. If Christine had the opportunity, she would willingly have gone anorexic herself, but she didn't want anyone to know about it. She knew they would say that she had an 'eating disorder,' and would try to force her to eat. This would entirely defeat the purpose of her cure for obesity. Thus, she was waiting for the days when she could finally move out of her parents' home and be on her own. Then she could be anorexic, and no one would know.
While Christine was thinking about all of this for the thousandth time in years, the telephone rang. She positively sprinted across the room and grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" she asked, expectantly, hopingly.
"Hey Chris," a deep bass male voice spoke. Christine sighed contentedly. She knew who it was immediately--her boyfriend Jean, the only one in the world who made her feel completely and absolutely special. They had been been friends since elementary school, and they had been together for almost a year by now. They hadn't had a single major quarrel.
"Hi Jean," she said, disguising the happiness in her voice of hearing from him thinly. Jean chuckled.
"You looked positively divine tonight at the dance," he said. Christine could almost hear the smile on his face.
"Thanks. And you looked most dashing yourself. I'm surprised I didn't get more jealous looks than I did."
"Oh, you got jealous looks all right," Jean corrected good-naturedly. "Even from Belle Truman."
Belle Truman was one girl at school that Christine really abhorred. "Oh, good," she said triumphantly. "That's a certainly a first!"
Here Jean paused. "Say, you wanna go out to dinner?"
Christine thought. She had, to all extents and purposes, already eaten with her mother. But then, that had just been a reheated TV dinner. And then, it wasn't every day that Jean asked her out to dinner....
"Sure," she replied, nodding her head even though she knew Jean couldn't see her. "So you'll come 'round now, then?"
"Yup. See you in five minutes."
"Love you."
"Love you, too."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Christine gently placed the phone down, then jumping up. She seized the dress she had worn for the dance, which she had discarded a while before on her bed. It was simply a long black sheath dress, and she found that it flattered her very effectively. It took her a moment to shinny into it. Then she jammed her pretty feet into a pair of leather high-heels, and grabbed a silk scarf and her purse. Thus appareled, Christine was ready to go.
She hurried downstairs, passing her mother, who was half asleep at the TV. "I'm going out with Jean," Christine declared, poking her mother with her finger.
"Have fun...don't be out too late..." her mother answered, not moving.
"Bye," Christine replied, already going out the door.
It wasn't long before Jean drove up her driveway in his sleek black car. Eagerly, even though they had barely last parted an hour ago, he leaped out of the car and embraced Christine affectionately. Jean was very tall as compared to Christine, and just thick enough in waist to make him irresistible to hug. His long black hair draped over his ears attractively, almost hiding his compassionate, calm face.
"I'm so glad you came," Christine whispered. Jean didn't know exactly how to reply, so he just patted her back.
"Where are we going?" Christine asked him, letting go of him.
"MacDonald's" Jean stated sternly, "And you're going to be happy about it."
Christine giggled. Even as she watched him, he couldn't disguise a small smile. She knew he was joking.
He gave in after the giggle. "Ok, so maybe we're not going to MacDonald's," Jean went on. "I want it to be a surprise, though."
"All right," Christine nodded. She added, as an afterthought, "You know, if it's going to be a surprise, you really should blindfold me."
"Excellent idea," Jean replied, taking her scarf. "I'll just use this, thanks." In a careless, effortless movement, he draped the scarf over his own neck and opened the car door in a gentlemanly fashion. "After you, mi'lady," he said courteously. Christine could not suppress another giggle, and slid onto the slick leather passenger seat.
Jean shut the car door on her side, walked around to the driver's seat, and slid in himself. "And now for the blindfold," he exclaimed gallantly, whipping the scarf from his own neck. Gently, he tied it around Christine's head. "Can you see?" he asked.
Christine tried to look. Other than a faint sliver of light that came in beneath her peripheral vision, she only saw blackness. "No," she replied.
"Good, then," Jean said, and he revved up the engine.
Some time later, Jean stopped the car. "We're here," he said in a frighteningly good British accent, and he pulled off the blindfold.
Christine looked up to that they were in the parking lot of her favorite restaurant in the world, Il Fettuccini Blanca, which served delicious Italian food.
She hugged Jean.
"Is this better than MacDonald's?" he asked humorously.
"By far," Christine answered, and they walked inside.
Christine had not forgotten her troubles of earlier in the evening at all. However, she decided that one meal with Jean wasn't going to hurt her any. Once they were seated, she ordered her favorite pasta dish, but not without a guilty conscience.
Jean didn't like pasta all that much, so he ordered some sort of steak. Any meal with beef was his favorite meal in the world.
When their food came, Christine suddenly realized how not hungry she was. She dismissed the feeling quickly, however, telling herself that she had better eat, since Jean was paying for the meal. Thus, she stuck her fork in the pasta and began eating.
About halfway through her expansive plate, Christine realized that if she ate another bite, she would burst. Nevertheless, now that she had started eating, there was no stopping her. Tediously, she finished off the entire plate.
Jean finished eating quickly. He left half of his steak and rice on his plate, and raised his eyebrows when Christine finally wiped her mouth on her napkin one last time. "Well, you're certainly a member of the clean plate club," he said laughingly. "Surely they don't starve you where you live, do they?"
Christine, at this, flushed a bright vivid red. Jean, seeing he had embarrassed her, quickly went on, "But never mind. So you were telling me about your mom's client..."
But the damage was done. Christine realized, suddenly, that she had completely finished her plate--eating twice, no THREE times (counting the TV dinner) as much in the evening as a growing young man...and Jean himself had noticed. She felt very disgusted at herself indeed. She tried to smile, and went on with the anecdote of her mother's banking clients, but the evening had been spoiled for her. In her eyes, Jean had done as close to calling her a fat pig as he had ever done.
Jean dropped her back off at home, not noticing at all that anything was wrong. Christine went upstairs to her room, sullen, warped, and miserable.
She slipped off her dress and began to prepare for bed. Christine was disappointed with herself, and wallowed in thoughts of harsh self-flaming and self-criticism. Amidst the storm raging within her, she managed to come to an abrupt revelation. As she hung up her dress and threw her shoes in the closet, she realized--food was just an addiction, like alcohol and cigarettes and drugs. And in her case, it was so great an obsession that she either had to over-eat at every single meal. She wished desperately that she could try and break her compulsion for food without letting the world notice. Not eating would only bring attention to herself, though, and she didn't want this.
After donning her pyjamas, she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Accidentally, she stuck her toothbrush back too far, and she choked. Quickly, she withdrew the toothbrush from her mouth. For a moment she was afraid that she was going to have to vomit, but she managed to hold the contents of her stomach. As she placed her toothbrush in its holder, though, she suddenly came upon an idea.
Down she went to the kitchen. It took her only a moment to find and grab a handy sthingy, which she concealed up her sleeve lest she encounter her mother. She had only one option, only one choice for herself...
Kneeling at the toilet in her bathroom, she stuck the back end of the sthingy down her throat. After a few tries, her stomach felt like it flipped upside down, and Christine had achieved her purpose. Over and over again she choked, over and over until there was nothing left in her.
Finished, Christine collapsed against the wall. "That wasn't so bad," she thought. She had discovered a way for her to not digest her meals, while actually eating. Now she could break her habit of food with security. No one would ever know now.
From then on, Christine force-vomited after every meal. Soon, she was addicted to her bulimia.
And indeed, no one ever suspected, even when it became apparent that she was losing weight faster than a child runs away from a plate of vegetables. That is, no one ever suspected until one day, while running in track after school, when Christine collapsed helplessly on the grass. She was immediately rushed to the nearest hospital, but it was of no use. Christine was dead.
Her gaze went on down from her head to her well-proportioned bust and stomach. Christine wasn't fat at all, just pleasantly filled-in. Nevertheless, in her view, she was desperately overweight.
"Ew..." she muttered, putting her long-fingered hand to her stomach to hide it from the mirror. She didn't succeed. With a deep sigh, Christine leant against the wall, staring down at the floor. A bit of stomach blocked her view just a tad, but she could still see her feet plainly. Christine recalled once that she had heard someone on the radio say that 'if you can see your feet, you're not overweight.' Well, even with this reassuring thought, Christine couldn't change her view of herself. Why was this world so cruel as to curse her with such an affliction? Every other girl at school wasn't half as curvy, wasn't half as plump (with the exception of a few, who were morbidly obese). What mandated that she should be an outsider with too much flesh when hundreds of others were positively sticks? Angrily, Christine grabbed a fistful of flab from her stomach, wanting to rip the flesh right off her body. If it were only so easy, she would have done it.
Christine understood that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but she believed steadfastly that if you consider yourself to be beautiful, then you are. It was all a matter of mere conception and confidence. But her problem was that she believed herself to be terribly ugly in her present state. She knew she had the potential to be quite pretty indeed, but in her mind, she would only achieve such by being thin.
Surreptitiously, Christine stole a glance at a poster of the popular celebrity singer, Maligne Trobidor, which she kept on her wall. Maligne looked almost exactly like Christine--brown hair in roughly the same haircut, dark blue eyes, and china skin. Maligne was, too, not much younger than Christine; there was perhaps a month between them. The only major difference between Maligne and Christine in appearance was the amount of meat on them; Maligne was anorexic and, consequently, had very little of anything on her. To Christine, however, Maligne was the epitome of perfect beauty. If Christine had the opportunity, she would willingly have gone anorexic herself, but she didn't want anyone to know about it. She knew they would say that she had an 'eating disorder,' and would try to force her to eat. This would entirely defeat the purpose of her cure for obesity. Thus, she was waiting for the days when she could finally move out of her parents' home and be on her own. Then she could be anorexic, and no one would know.
While Christine was thinking about all of this for the thousandth time in years, the telephone rang. She positively sprinted across the room and grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" she asked, expectantly, hopingly.
"Hey Chris," a deep bass male voice spoke. Christine sighed contentedly. She knew who it was immediately--her boyfriend Jean, the only one in the world who made her feel completely and absolutely special. They had been been friends since elementary school, and they had been together for almost a year by now. They hadn't had a single major quarrel.
"Hi Jean," she said, disguising the happiness in her voice of hearing from him thinly. Jean chuckled.
"You looked positively divine tonight at the dance," he said. Christine could almost hear the smile on his face.
"Thanks. And you looked most dashing yourself. I'm surprised I didn't get more jealous looks than I did."
"Oh, you got jealous looks all right," Jean corrected good-naturedly. "Even from Belle Truman."
Belle Truman was one girl at school that Christine really abhorred. "Oh, good," she said triumphantly. "That's a certainly a first!"
Here Jean paused. "Say, you wanna go out to dinner?"
Christine thought. She had, to all extents and purposes, already eaten with her mother. But then, that had just been a reheated TV dinner. And then, it wasn't every day that Jean asked her out to dinner....
"Sure," she replied, nodding her head even though she knew Jean couldn't see her. "So you'll come 'round now, then?"
"Yup. See you in five minutes."
"Love you."
"Love you, too."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Christine gently placed the phone down, then jumping up. She seized the dress she had worn for the dance, which she had discarded a while before on her bed. It was simply a long black sheath dress, and she found that it flattered her very effectively. It took her a moment to shinny into it. Then she jammed her pretty feet into a pair of leather high-heels, and grabbed a silk scarf and her purse. Thus appareled, Christine was ready to go.
She hurried downstairs, passing her mother, who was half asleep at the TV. "I'm going out with Jean," Christine declared, poking her mother with her finger.
"Have fun...don't be out too late..." her mother answered, not moving.
"Bye," Christine replied, already going out the door.
It wasn't long before Jean drove up her driveway in his sleek black car. Eagerly, even though they had barely last parted an hour ago, he leaped out of the car and embraced Christine affectionately. Jean was very tall as compared to Christine, and just thick enough in waist to make him irresistible to hug. His long black hair draped over his ears attractively, almost hiding his compassionate, calm face.
"I'm so glad you came," Christine whispered. Jean didn't know exactly how to reply, so he just patted her back.
"Where are we going?" Christine asked him, letting go of him.
"MacDonald's" Jean stated sternly, "And you're going to be happy about it."
Christine giggled. Even as she watched him, he couldn't disguise a small smile. She knew he was joking.
He gave in after the giggle. "Ok, so maybe we're not going to MacDonald's," Jean went on. "I want it to be a surprise, though."
"All right," Christine nodded. She added, as an afterthought, "You know, if it's going to be a surprise, you really should blindfold me."
"Excellent idea," Jean replied, taking her scarf. "I'll just use this, thanks." In a careless, effortless movement, he draped the scarf over his own neck and opened the car door in a gentlemanly fashion. "After you, mi'lady," he said courteously. Christine could not suppress another giggle, and slid onto the slick leather passenger seat.
Jean shut the car door on her side, walked around to the driver's seat, and slid in himself. "And now for the blindfold," he exclaimed gallantly, whipping the scarf from his own neck. Gently, he tied it around Christine's head. "Can you see?" he asked.
Christine tried to look. Other than a faint sliver of light that came in beneath her peripheral vision, she only saw blackness. "No," she replied.
"Good, then," Jean said, and he revved up the engine.
Some time later, Jean stopped the car. "We're here," he said in a frighteningly good British accent, and he pulled off the blindfold.
Christine looked up to that they were in the parking lot of her favorite restaurant in the world, Il Fettuccini Blanca, which served delicious Italian food.
She hugged Jean.
"Is this better than MacDonald's?" he asked humorously.
"By far," Christine answered, and they walked inside.
Christine had not forgotten her troubles of earlier in the evening at all. However, she decided that one meal with Jean wasn't going to hurt her any. Once they were seated, she ordered her favorite pasta dish, but not without a guilty conscience.
Jean didn't like pasta all that much, so he ordered some sort of steak. Any meal with beef was his favorite meal in the world.
When their food came, Christine suddenly realized how not hungry she was. She dismissed the feeling quickly, however, telling herself that she had better eat, since Jean was paying for the meal. Thus, she stuck her fork in the pasta and began eating.
About halfway through her expansive plate, Christine realized that if she ate another bite, she would burst. Nevertheless, now that she had started eating, there was no stopping her. Tediously, she finished off the entire plate.
Jean finished eating quickly. He left half of his steak and rice on his plate, and raised his eyebrows when Christine finally wiped her mouth on her napkin one last time. "Well, you're certainly a member of the clean plate club," he said laughingly. "Surely they don't starve you where you live, do they?"
Christine, at this, flushed a bright vivid red. Jean, seeing he had embarrassed her, quickly went on, "But never mind. So you were telling me about your mom's client..."
But the damage was done. Christine realized, suddenly, that she had completely finished her plate--eating twice, no THREE times (counting the TV dinner) as much in the evening as a growing young man...and Jean himself had noticed. She felt very disgusted at herself indeed. She tried to smile, and went on with the anecdote of her mother's banking clients, but the evening had been spoiled for her. In her eyes, Jean had done as close to calling her a fat pig as he had ever done.
Jean dropped her back off at home, not noticing at all that anything was wrong. Christine went upstairs to her room, sullen, warped, and miserable.
She slipped off her dress and began to prepare for bed. Christine was disappointed with herself, and wallowed in thoughts of harsh self-flaming and self-criticism. Amidst the storm raging within her, she managed to come to an abrupt revelation. As she hung up her dress and threw her shoes in the closet, she realized--food was just an addiction, like alcohol and cigarettes and drugs. And in her case, it was so great an obsession that she either had to over-eat at every single meal. She wished desperately that she could try and break her compulsion for food without letting the world notice. Not eating would only bring attention to herself, though, and she didn't want this.
After donning her pyjamas, she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Accidentally, she stuck her toothbrush back too far, and she choked. Quickly, she withdrew the toothbrush from her mouth. For a moment she was afraid that she was going to have to vomit, but she managed to hold the contents of her stomach. As she placed her toothbrush in its holder, though, she suddenly came upon an idea.
Down she went to the kitchen. It took her only a moment to find and grab a handy sthingy, which she concealed up her sleeve lest she encounter her mother. She had only one option, only one choice for herself...
Kneeling at the toilet in her bathroom, she stuck the back end of the sthingy down her throat. After a few tries, her stomach felt like it flipped upside down, and Christine had achieved her purpose. Over and over again she choked, over and over until there was nothing left in her.
Finished, Christine collapsed against the wall. "That wasn't so bad," she thought. She had discovered a way for her to not digest her meals, while actually eating. Now she could break her habit of food with security. No one would ever know now.
From then on, Christine force-vomited after every meal. Soon, she was addicted to her bulimia.
And indeed, no one ever suspected, even when it became apparent that she was losing weight faster than a child runs away from a plate of vegetables. That is, no one ever suspected until one day, while running in track after school, when Christine collapsed helplessly on the grass. She was immediately rushed to the nearest hospital, but it was of no use. Christine was dead.
