Red red red. It’s everywhere. It’s everything. It’s all over her. It’s over the world.

And there’s bright lights and loud voices and soft beds and rough restraints and doctors and nurses and needles and medications.

She notes a voice say, “You’re gonna be okay.”

She snorts a sardonic laugh. Because really. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It’s not okay. And it never has. And it never will be.

But that’s okay. Because she’s p e r f e c t i o n. Thin hips and defined ribs and breasts that defy logic (thank God for plastic surgery) and she’s just so p e r f e c t.

She’s always been perfect. From a young age she’s learned. Shut up, sit down, smile. No, keep your mouth shut. Just smile and tip your head. Yes. That’s what we like to see. Cross your legs, you’re not a slut. Unbutton your blouse, you’re not a nun.

Think for herself? As if. She doesn’t need to. Books and learning and tests and knowledge? G r o s s. Blush and mascara and eyeshadow and lipstick? Those are her degrees (she’s aced every test).

So she bides her time. Watches IVs drip into her arms. Waits until she can be back home. Waits so she can get back to her scale. Waits until she can stick her fingers down her throat and feel that burn again (“Baby, it’s the two finger diet.”). Waits until she can be perfect again.

Voices. People. Tears. Horror.

She’s out. And she goes back to her old life.

Until the day she doesn’t. Until the day she picks up that silver razor (oh how pretty, it matches her nails!) and decides to end it before she gets old. Wrinkles and lines and liver spots? D i s g u s t i n g.

Now she’s immortal baby. No tears. No feelings. No soul. No humanity. None of those pesky things for someone who’s so f l a w l e s s.

Because the world says she just needs to look perfect. And really…where’s the harm in that?