(3) Excerpt from apart of my book

this is Lee Berdy narrating this excerpt. she was the narrator of excerpt 2.

I was standing naked in front of my dresser, letting my gaze bounce off of the mirror atop it and reflect to the girl hopelessly standing in fear of her own body. I kept looking at myself, how fat and ugly I looked, my gaze traveling across each and every roll that littered the edges of my torso. I let my fingers graze the glossy top of the magazine and the woman inside the picture sitting atop that dark dresser of mine.  Her pale, smooth skin, flat stomach, toned abs. Her devastatingly perfect legs, her hips. She looked like me in every way possible, except, I was fat, she was thin. Her eyes, the same glistening blue color of mine.

It was as if she captured my soul with a harpoon and devoured it, stealing all of my perfections, but leaving my imperfections. She picked and chose which pieces of me to take, and which to leave. She robbed me of my lips, and the pale pink shade they held. She even stole my hair, the toasted waves of glittering gold that fell across my shoulders.

A warm, glistening tear welled inside my eyes and tucked itself on the brim of my lids, taunting me. I stepped back. Letting my own legs and hips come into view. The thick layers of fat covered them like a coat of fur on a lion’s mane. They were two massive balloons covered in cellulite. My hips, forming the shape of a perfect violin as they sat still, plaguing me with even more hate.

I slammed my hand down on them, watching the waves my fat made as it ricocheted off of my hip bones, hidden deep underneath them. I grabbed a fistfull of skin and fat in my hand. I screamed and pulled at it. Digging my nails deep into the meat. Pain and heat flooded the area. The skin turned white as I continued to dig, a fog of hatred flooding my brain. Seconds later I felt blood spill onto my fingers.

The cuts stung with every second I kept digging. The salt on my skin causing the pain inside my hip to boil. I bit my lip to keep from screaming in pain, those little taunting tears leaping from my lids to my cheek. I looked away from my hands for only a second, to let my eyes travel back to the girl in the mirror. I saw myself and stopped.

My entire hip was covered in a thin layer of blood, dribbling down my thighs. My nails had crimson stuck deep in the crevice and the pain radiating from my hip was almost unbearable. I hadn’t even done much. Just a few too many deep slits was enough, I guess.

I stepped back further and sat down on my bedspread. The blood dribbled onto the sheets, but I didn’t care. I kept staring at myself, what had I done? What was I doing to myself? “Oh my god,” I mumbled to myself, my face dropping to my hands.

My eyes were dark and glassy, like a storm had just attacked the sea with a rage so furious, nobody survived. My lip was bruised and my hands were, too.

“What f*****g idiot tried to rip their skin off?” I asked myself, staring into the mirror. Of course, there was no reply. But I knew, deep in my bones, that you had to be really fucked up to try.

Reviews

[Jacob Clifford]

This story is very poignant. It's terrible how society judges women who don't have these petite, "perfect" figures. No girl should ever have to worry about these things. This concept is very well expressed.