I don’t like being here, being brought here. They pump slushy food directly into my stomach through a tube, and drip all sorts of stuff into my bloodstream. When I get a bit stronger, they’ll bring me real food instead and watch, to make sure I gobble everything down. Watch me when I go to the toilet, to make sure what goes down stays down. As each digestion runs its course, I can feel gravity pull on each new ounce of fat that grows in me. After a couple of weeks I’ll be back home, fat and ugly as before.
And yet, there’s something completely different and uplifting about this morning. I woke up to the alarm clock feeling light as a bird (funny, I didn’t remember there even being an alarm clock). Stepped onto the scale in the corner of the room and the numbers didn’t even budge. At last a big fat zero! No point in getting dressed: the clothes I came in would be way too loose for a perfect day like this.
I just wish the mirror worked.
And this endless beep from the alarm clock is starting to get on my nerves.
And all these people rushing into the room, towards the bony woman who’s strangely on my bed now.
Can someone get me a mirror that works, please?
(Contribuição para um desafio do Global Writing & Storytelling Group do Internations.)