I knew by the way my new clothes fit me that I wasn't fat. I could even see my waistline, and the beginnings of a six pack carving its way into my stomach. I could trace my jaw line with my fingertip, where before it laid buried under layers and layers of fat. My cheekbones jutted out sharply, and my hipbones were becoming more and more prominent every day.
It was almost like I was the Wicked Witch of the West. Melting. Melting. Melting...
That night, after returning home from graduation, I stood in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom and sucked in what was left of my gut. The black skirt that I bought especially for the occasion dipped lower around my waist, and the front of my blouse hung loose and limp. Then I exhaled, pushing my stomach out as far as I could. The skirt tightened uncomfortably, digging into my flesh. The thin fabric of my blouse stretched, causing the buttons to strain dangerously against the single loops of thread that held them in place. After a minute, I inhaled again.
Fat. Thin. Fat. Thin. Fat. Thin. Fat...
I cocked my head, examining my reflection. "Still fat," I muttered, shrugging out of my dress clothes and into a pair of sweats. As I tightened the laces on my running shoes, I could already feel my heart rate speed up. My blood pulsed a steady beat in my ears, and my muscles twitched anxiously. Just thinking about the amount of fat that was left on my body was enough to propel me forward.
I had the urge - no, the need - to move, move, move.
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"For me, writing is exploration; and most of the time, I'm surprised where the journey takes me."
-- Jack Dann
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