Chapter 1

My sister is in tears as she calls my name. She watches my eyes flutter from opened to closed, her green eyes averting between her thumb on my pulse and my empty stare. Does she know that if I'm going to die, I'd want to die in peace? Izabel never understood me from the beginning.

"Don't call 9-11." My voice is strained and weak. I don't even think she comprehends what I say.

She calls my name again, demanding that I get up off the floor, if I can hear her, whatnot. When I see her look to the wireless phone on our coffee table, I know I am fucked. Today is not my day to disappear from the stress of my eating disorder. The never ending battle between my incompetent, starving body and futile brain.

Of course she gets up and prances to the phone with her perfect twenty-three inch waist. How could she be so selfish? As she speaks on the phone to the emergency dispatcher, I have just about enough strength to roll my eyes.

My body is a placid pond, still and ductile. There is no way I'm languishing before the medics get here. The pills aren't working fast enough, for God's sake.

But I am found to be mistaken. To my amazement twenty seconds into overhearing Izabel pour out all of my information to the dispatcher, I close my eyes and feel my breathing stress further til I can no longer feel my lungs expanding. I am whole again in my final moment. I have found my solace.

•

My mother is angry with me. Her professionally done threaded eyebrows are knitted together but no words escape from her mouth. She patiently waits.

"I'm not eating this." I say, pointing my manicured finger at the roast beef on the plate. I'm almost tempted to wave it in her face as I inform, "Beef is fatteni-"

"Oh, stop it already!" She shouts at me. "I don't even want to begin with what could have happened had Izabel not come home in time." She wants to say more but refrains. She knows she won't get through to me in the way she could her perfect younger, skinnier daughter.

"Izabel – what a gem." I drawl.

Catalina looks furious. Her coloured eyes light up in a livid shade of ice blue, which often turn to sea green when she is in a great mood – a cause I'm obviously not helping. I don't care. I still cannot believe she took time off work for this. As if she needs to be home to babysit me. And I'm clearly not stupid enough to try again a day later.

"I don't understand, Amanda. You have friends, good grades, intelligence – things people envy. Why would you do this to yourself?"

I don't say anything to her. She would never understand. I can't tell her I'm sick of trying to maintain my perfect weight. She and Izabel naturally have tiny frames, having no idea what it's like to be grotesque and hideous.

"I don't know," I choose my words wisely.

My mom stands up from her seat and goes to the phone. She dials a number from the phone book. "I was hoping we could talk things out and it wouldn't have to lead to this,"

She is helpless to her devotion to being my mother.

I roll my eyes in disgust. How could one care for me? I am disgusting. A bottom feeder in my bubble of close friends who worship falsehood.

I listen to my mother chatting to the shrink's office. She spills out every little intricate detail about involving my latest suicide attempt, my eating disorder and horrible attitude problem to the pitiful receptionist. I am a monster in Catalina's eyes. A fat, defeated monster concealing pure hatred and disdain under my rippling flesh. My flippant front fools nobody. She rolls her eyes at my calmness and stoicism, the curve at the end of my mouth that turns upwards at her belligerence.

I remain calculating at all times in my life, forever looking over my shoulder. It is typical of popular girls with serious life-threatening diseases such as anorexia or major depression. We are burdened while expecting to be perfect. My mother forced me to quit ballet at twelve the moment she saw me forcing vomit out of my stomach, two fingers down my throat. I blamed my teacher who said my frame was bigger than average ballerinas. Typical beginnings to the problems that encapsulate us in our vicious cycles as we strive to be exceptional.