She turned on the shower, and proceeded to undress.
Standing naked in front of the full length mirror, she had never felt more disgusted with herself than that moment; the moment where the illusion ended. The padded bra lay discarded with her school uniform, and in its place was her pale flat chest. Much like cling-film, her skin looked stretched and tight over her protruding bones. Dozens of small pink lines, “cat scratches” was the recurring excuse, stood emphasised against her white skin.
She knew what she had to do.
Slowly, the walked to the toilet.
Kneeling down, her fingers were already in her mouth. She knew the drill; she’d done this a thousand times. She gagged and pushed harder, her stomach reacted well sending the hot bile up her sore throat and out of her mouth. She continued to make herself violently sick until her body could give no more and she slumped backwards, exhausted and repulsed.
She looked up and caught sight of herself in the mirror, her long golden hair was dripping with vomit and her mascara tinted tears sliced the sharp contours of her pale face. Revolted with herself, she closed her eyes, and curled up on the floor. Clutching her knees to her chest, she lay there shaking and forced herself to gasp in the humid air of the steamy bathroom, for she was sure that the forced gasps between her sobs were the only thing that stopped her aching ribs from giving way, allowing her chest to cave in completely.