I see a fat girl staring straight at me. I turn my nose up in disgust and twist the other way. I am about to walk away when I turn back around. I don’t know what compelled me to look at that double-chinned, squirrel-cheeked freak again but I do. I whip my recently dyed shiny brunette hair out of my face and look into her muddy brown eyes again. This time I notice the knife in her hand. The knife gleams to life, and it is stained red with pain and shame. I watch the blood slowly dribble down her open hand and onto the rolls and bumps of her stomach. She doesn’t seem to care that she is ruining her shirt because she is still staring right at me. I want to look away again from this ugly creature and her beckoning knife. It’s too painful to watch. And yet I look. The girl clenches the knife in her right hand and turns her left wrist upward. I want to call out to this girl who is hurting. I hang back though. This girl did this to herself. She doesn’t have to be so chubby. She doesn’t have to cut herself. She could be as perfect as me if she wanted to. So I don’t say a word as the knife edges towards her skin. My eyes harden a bit and I stand with my arms crossed. What kind of loser cuts themselves? Meth head. Emo. Deadbeat. Washout. Failure. The girl slices through her skin but doesn’t look to watch the blood flow. Her eyes are still settled on mine. Her gaze starts to slowly make its way to her arm, and I look down, glad that the trance was broken. What I see shocks me. Rolls of fat cover my midsection and flab clings to my arms. Blood flows freely from my wrists. Oh god, I think, this can’t be happening. I look up and see the girl staring back at me. She looks scared. Before I pass out, I hear a scream.

It was the girl.

It was me.