I look down at my body, being dragged along, my boots skidding on the surface of the floor. I can't move. I'm freezing slowly. I feel the tears go from warm to ice on my face. I almost can hear them tinkle on the linoleum.I close my eyes tight. I imagine myself as a statue, carved away in someone else's brilliant image. Thin. Smooth. Clean. Made of ice,or maybe marble.That would be perfect.

I open my eyes again when she places me at a table. They sting, a good sting, means the bad stuff inside is coming out. I look at the tabletop.Its smooth. I can see my face in it....agh! DISGUSTING. I choose to look  up instead. The woman they call my therapist is looking back at me with warm eyes, like a horses gaze. (how did she sneak over here???) She slides a piece of white paper and a box of Crayola pencils my way. "This is how I start with everyone.Just draw a self portrait."

I start on my face. Stringy ugly dishwater blond hair like old frayed yarn. Too-round, too-fat face.Weird narrow gray eyes. Invisible-blond eyebrows. Big nose. Big mouth. Now my body. Football-player shoulders. Too-big hands. Squishy soft hips. Awkward, shortish legs.Red.Yellow. Gray.

I stare at it a moment, methodically take out a black pencil, and scratch a heavy X through my face. My head falls to the cool. shiny tabletop and tears sting my cheeks again.

The End

2 comments about this story Feed