“Look in the mirror and tell yourself that you’re beautiful!”
In this small, cramped basement full of grimy mirrors and worn floorboards, Macy, the therapist heaves her bulging body around in an effort to pump some enthusiasm into us skin-bags. The fluorescent light bulbs flimsily veiled by cheap paper lanterns, flickers above us and casts ghastly shadows over our sullen faces.
Macy waddles her way over to me. Her sweaty hands land on my shoulders, sticky fingers pressing hard into my joints. I resist the urge to shudder and turn away. All that fat is seeping into me through her huge pores.
“Your turn, Lila,” Macy chirps cheerfully. Her breath, heavy and sodden with trans fats, floats in a dense fog toward my face. I can smell the heart disease and diabetes. “Look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?”
The question hangs in the air for a moment. All around me, my girls are looking at me with sharp eyes and waiting with even sharper tongues.
“A normal girl,” I say monotonously.
An exhalation of relief tinged with betrayal is released.
Macy blinks. “A beautiful girl, too, you mean.” The meaningless words fall easily from her blubber-lips, dripping with saturated fats and oils.
I simply nod, staring at my reflection in the dirty mirror. Mirror-me is distorted and disgusting. The real me…I am a thousand times worse.