Weightless

A short story about a couple - from beginning to end. WARNING: This story does include suicide and mentions an eating disorder. If this will bother you in any way, please do not read.

“Tell me I'm your favorite,” she whispered. Her lips were near his ear and Matt could hardly think straight. His heart pounded in his ears so loud, he was shocked to have heard her.

Her hands were on his shoulders, weightless. He managed to repeat, “You're my favorite,” and he was proud, even though his voice shook.

The kiss did nothing to make him less nervous. He had dated girls, but this one was different. Ella was the one.

He thought back to all the times he heard his parents talk, listened to his father repeat: When you find the one, you just know. Matt knew.

His eyes stayed closed a few seconds after their lips parted, just feeling. Storing it in his memory. Tell me I'm your favorite, she had said.

“You're my favorite,” he repeated again, mumbled this time. She giggled before pressing her face to his neck, and he could feel her smile.

That night they turned his living room into a dance floor. “Help me move the couch,” she told him, and then she left him to make snacks. He left her to find music, then came back without any.

By that time, the skies were dark and gray. With the television off, they could hear rain falling onto the roof. The house echoed with the noise of the storm, and once she jumped out of his arms when the thunder clanged.

They danced to the roaring wind, and she opened the windows so they didn't miss a beat. This was their first dance and their first kiss. He wondered, why so many firsts?

He lifted her into his arms and said, “You're so light.”

He was a stupid boy then, so he said it like a compliment. And three months later, they had their first fight. They screamed things that only a young couple in love would say. They criticized each other in a way only the desperate and hurt would.

When it was time to make up, he carried her inside the house. And he said again, “You're so light.” It was still a compliment. He was still a stupid, stupid boy.

On the night before their two-year anniversary she whispered to him, Tell me I'm your favorite.

“You know you're my favorite.” He told her all the time. This was her thing, to hear the words. Over and over. Sometimes he said them without the prompt, but not often enough.

“Tell me,” she whispered. And he looked at her then and saw what he had for awhile now. Matt saw her ribs, and her uncertainty, and how it all jumbled together to make a huge, scattered mess.

Stupid, stupid, stupid boy.

“You're my favorite,” he whispered, and kissed her cheek, and hoped it was enough somehow. She smiled a teeny smile, which was the biggest one she had those days, and he thought it was okay.

He woke up with empty arms and knew there was an anniversary surprise. It was disappointing, because he was going to be the one thrilling her with gifts and kisses and the diamond ring in the nightstand.

It took awhile to find her, because she hadn't wanted to be found. Not by him, or anyone aside from a complete stranger - someone who would not know who this girl was, would not care about finding a body.

This person would not know she lived a life full of secrets and lies, of comparing herself, skipping meals, running miles on end for a goal that was impossible to achieve.

She wanted to be weightless, beyond size zero, because zero still finds a way to put numbers on a scale. Zero still finds a way to take up space.

Matt knew her well and found her, not by thinking of her plan, but by knowing her favorite places. He was not a stranger and he did know everything, everything about her.

At the park down the street there was a cliff, perfect for viewing, ideal for jumping from if one wanted to sky dive, or end their life. And Ella wasn't a sky diver.

He did not get to touch her face, because it was too far out of reach. He could only see the body, broken, laying eyes on her before any other soul had a chance.

Matt pulled the ring from his pocket and took it from his box, holding it for a moment in a clenched fist over the edge of the cliff. On second thought, he pressed it to his lips for one last kiss, then released it. A long fall it was, before he finally heard the clang at the bottom. It landed near her right leg.

Perhaps that was what he'd been testing: The distance of the fall. He sat on the ledge with his head in his hands, unable to cry or think, to do anything except murmur, "Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid boy."

In that moment the ghost of her voice lingered, whispered to him like it had so many times over the years: Tell me I'm your favorite.

As an answer, his hands pushed him off the ledge. He fell down, down, first soaring and then panicking, all before the impact - then nothing.

Tell me I'm your favorite.

You're my favorite.

Stupid, stupid boy.

Author's Note

I would love to hear any and all criticism you have for this piece. I consider it one of my better short stories and would love to improve it even more.

Reviews

[Marie]

It is actually pretty good. At first I wasn't going to read it, because eating disorders and suicides both bore me. but this wasn't boring. I'm not saying the subject of the story wasn't boring, but the style in which you wrote it made it interesting.

[Katie MIchelle]

I'm glad you like it! It always means a lot to me when someone reads something of mine they wouldn't usually and end up liking it. Thank you for your review as well.