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A fly battered incessantly at the warped pane, beating itself repeatedly, brutally. Defeatist.

A baritone grovel resonated from deep within me, a piteous plea from a weakened beast, close to submission. Defeat.

I folded my arms around myself, bone on bone. My skin hung from my frame, a curtain on a rail. I could see my heart pounding my ribs; disjointedly, frantically, fluctuating my translucent skin. The fly plummeted finally, hit the sill, twitched, and then moved no more. Defeated.

Upon dragging out the draw from under my bed, I was engulfed by colour, gaudy, blocks of colour and writing and words. I'd arranged the bars of chocolate, boxes of sweets, sticks of rock, stems of nougat, lollipops, sugar mice, polos...everything orderly. Everything fit. But these weren't for eating, gorging. They were to be looked at, held, smelt. When hunger threatens to overwhelm me, starvation clawing at my ankles, I open the draw and the beast subsides. I open the draw to feel full again. With an effort I replaced the draw. Tentatively, I stood, crossed the room and caught my gaze in the mirror. Instinctively my eyes flicked away, unable to bear the hulking mass that skulked behind the glass. I held out my arm, weakly; saw the the pulse faintly pumping through the blue tubes beneath the pallid veil of skin. My gaze edged back towards the reflection. Undeniable. Who was the girl in the mirror? Why was she so ugly? Fat!
My eyes fell to my own stomach, hip bones jutting, ribs like racing stripes.

I know I am not fat, at least, reality tells me I'm not. But that feeling of superiority – that everybody else is fat, that feeling is my high. I see them eating, gorging, and that makes me the winner.

When I'm at home, nobody notices me. Nobody cares whether I eat or not, they're too busy with themselves. My mother loves me, but she prefers her new life with her new boyfriend and new baby – I am a reminder of bad memories. A ghost.
At mealtimes I talk. I talk a lot. I'm good at talking. I take a forkful, bring it to my lips, then start a conversation. I dissect my food into tiny pieces, and push it around my plate. They are too busy feeding the baby, nobody notices me. I'm not scared of food, I spend lots of time looking at recipe books, I do the grocery shopping – I like talking to the grocer. His voice is rich, his speech is rhythmical, pulsing with life.

When I'm at college, one person notices me. James. James is clever, very clever. Mensa clever. And tall and decent looking. We’ve known each other since we were both eight years old. When we didn’t care how we looked. Didn’t care for anyone but each other. We would swim in the reservoir and run through the fields. James would hold my hand when the farmer yelled at us and chased us home. We would make up imaginary worlds with dragons and trolls and fairies.

What is controlling me? The fat girl in the mirror? A part of me knows this is wrong, but that part is bound and muffled, the subconscious rules supreme.

I know I ought to eat, food is everywhere. When I see food, I see fat. Once I've seen fat, the beast latches on to me, my subconscious overrules me. Then I am defeated.