Reflections in the mirror.

Jane’s vision was fine. When she looked in the mirror she saw herself the same way others did: a waif of a girl who would have been cute if her face didn’t look so hallowed and worn. To everyone else her wearied appearance was just an indication of exaggerated teen stress, but Jane knew it for what it truly was. It was a sign of her success, that she was dissolving away her body and with it her pain.

She ran the bathtub to mask the sound of her retching. If her parents wondered why Jane needed to take a shower after every meal, they never said anything. She would just slip off quietly to the bathroom, lock the door, and commence her penance. She felt that she had sinned, and there was a price to be paid.

For Jane, her ritual always began with the mirror. Stripped naked before it, she would examine every inch of her frail body. The less of her there was, the better. She would suck in her breath, and could easily feel her stomach as the bloated, disgusting mass that it was. It infected her with a such a penetrating self-loathing, that her mind could not rest until it was emptied. So she brought back up the failure she had swallowed. It sometimes took the form of half a turkey sandwich and maybe a few orange slices. Other times it was nothing more than a glass of milk and few bites of broccoli. Whatever its form, when it left her body it took with it the additional weight of guilt.

Jane had to be thorough, and she could easily spend 15 or twenty minutes in the bathroom. Knowing the truth but never stating as much, her mother would occasionally knock on the door. “Janey, honey? Everything alright?”

“Janey.” She hated that. “Janey.” Like she was 7 years old, not 14.

“What is it, MUH-THER?” She emphasized “mother” to show her annoyance at being disturbed, and the unspoken accusations that were implied.

I’m not doing anything. Just leave me alone. Why can’t you just leave me alone?

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

She’d run her head under the faucet to wet her hair, and put her clothes back on. Before unlocking the door, she would suck in her breath one last time, just to be sure. Empty. There was contentment in that emptiness, her feelings of failure momentarily abated.

Jane could then face the world again, and in it, the people that loved her but closed their eyes to the truth. Because the truth was unsettling, or made them uncomfortable, or was simply too difficult to accept. Because when the truth is a problem, it’s easy to believe lies.