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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Death / Heartbreak / Loss
- Published: 08/05/2011
Your Little Eleven Word Comment
Born 1990, F, from Johannesburg, South AfricaI stand here and stare at myself through the full-length mirror, staring at the body I had been cursed with. I was sure I had been standing there for nearly 3 hours, just picking at every single flaw my beetle-black eyes could find. I criticized my hair for the mousy brown that it was, for its dryness and its split ends and stared at my fringe as it hung carelessly over my eyes. I criticized the shape of my round face and wondered if I weren’t the size of a house, if it would change shape? I stared at my small eyes, my hooked nose and my thin lips and loathed the sight of them. My neck was too short, my manly shoulders were distracting and my arms had extra fat, despite me only being 18 years old.
I snorted as I looked at my breasts. Ha! What breasts? For a girl who’s BMI was already 22– in other words FAT, I had no breasts to show for it. Instead, I thought, it all rested by my tummy. My stomach had the appearance of a massive swimming tube, useless of course if I had to drown, unlike a tube.
No wonder Will wouldn’t look at me the same anymore. I’ve seen the way he looks at models on TV; I’ve seen the way he drools over my friends who are thinner and prettier than me. He thinks I haven’t, but I have. He tells me I’m beautiful, he tells me I have the best body parts, but how could I believe him when I find porn magazines under his bed after we have sex?
I look at my buttocks and my thighs and words can’t describe the revulsion and hate I feel when I do. I feel like throwing up. My knees are too low, my legs are stout, and my feet are flat and fat. I wonder how I hadn’t thought of doing this before...
I sat on the floor and grabbed the pocket knife I had swiped from my boyfriend Will’s pockets. I twirled it in my hands, staring at the blade with awe. It was perfect for its purpose, it was carved to perfection. Then something caught my attention. It was my hand. The exception to everything else, I had perfectly manicured nails, my hands weren’t hairy, my fingers were long and my nail beds were rectangular. Pretty hands were all I had. Pretty yes, I thought, not perfect.
That’s when I raised the knife and sliced through my wrist. Nice and deep.
The knife was made to cut, and cut it did. I cut a straight line down my arm and I cried out in pain, but I didn’t pull away till I had cut all the way to the inside of my elbow. My insides were burning and my eyes bulged as I rushed to the bathroom to get a towel to wrap around my arm, but it was too late. I felt myself go weak; I felt the blackout approaching...
I felt, like they say, my life flashing before my eyes and remembered his last words to me;
“Are you sure you want that last piece of cake, babe?”
Your Little Eleven Word Comment(Marinda Liza)
I stand here and stare at myself through the full-length mirror, staring at the body I had been cursed with. I was sure I had been standing there for nearly 3 hours, just picking at every single flaw my beetle-black eyes could find. I criticized my hair for the mousy brown that it was, for its dryness and its split ends and stared at my fringe as it hung carelessly over my eyes. I criticized the shape of my round face and wondered if I weren’t the size of a house, if it would change shape? I stared at my small eyes, my hooked nose and my thin lips and loathed the sight of them. My neck was too short, my manly shoulders were distracting and my arms had extra fat, despite me only being 18 years old.
I snorted as I looked at my breasts. Ha! What breasts? For a girl who’s BMI was already 22– in other words FAT, I had no breasts to show for it. Instead, I thought, it all rested by my tummy. My stomach had the appearance of a massive swimming tube, useless of course if I had to drown, unlike a tube.
No wonder Will wouldn’t look at me the same anymore. I’ve seen the way he looks at models on TV; I’ve seen the way he drools over my friends who are thinner and prettier than me. He thinks I haven’t, but I have. He tells me I’m beautiful, he tells me I have the best body parts, but how could I believe him when I find porn magazines under his bed after we have sex?
I look at my buttocks and my thighs and words can’t describe the revulsion and hate I feel when I do. I feel like throwing up. My knees are too low, my legs are stout, and my feet are flat and fat. I wonder how I hadn’t thought of doing this before...
I sat on the floor and grabbed the pocket knife I had swiped from my boyfriend Will’s pockets. I twirled it in my hands, staring at the blade with awe. It was perfect for its purpose, it was carved to perfection. Then something caught my attention. It was my hand. The exception to everything else, I had perfectly manicured nails, my hands weren’t hairy, my fingers were long and my nail beds were rectangular. Pretty hands were all I had. Pretty yes, I thought, not perfect.
That’s when I raised the knife and sliced through my wrist. Nice and deep.
The knife was made to cut, and cut it did. I cut a straight line down my arm and I cried out in pain, but I didn’t pull away till I had cut all the way to the inside of my elbow. My insides were burning and my eyes bulged as I rushed to the bathroom to get a towel to wrap around my arm, but it was too late. I felt myself go weak; I felt the blackout approaching...
I felt, like they say, my life flashing before my eyes and remembered his last words to me;
“Are you sure you want that last piece of cake, babe?”
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