Disclaimer: Don't own RENT. Nothing to do with it.

Summary: Crazy shorty featuring an anorexic Maureen. I've had the idea for this since the summer started, but never got around to writing it till now. Maureen, April, Mark and Roger are all probably in high school during this. I would guess anyway. –shrug-

Baby, So Sweet.

99 pounds.
Better than before. Better, but still fucking fat.
I swear my dress felt tighter onstage tonight. The fabric was closing in on me. Skin-tight. It had me bound. I was trapped in it. I could hardly sing. Shouldn't have eaten those crackers.
Pull my sweater on, zip it up. Have to jog it off. I have to look perfect on stage tomorrow. Don't want them to think I'm fat. I have to be perfect.
Breathe. Steady rhythm on the pavement. It's late, there's no one around. I'm alone.
Like always.

Tears blur my view of the mirror.
Can't be. Can't be. I can't have. I haven't done anything wrong. I've been good.
I've been good.

"I think you're thin enough." Mark says softly, not looking at me. Roger pretends not to notice what we're talking about. He strums his guitar.
"You don't understand, Mark." You never will.
April touches my arm.
"Moo, you need to stop this. You need to stop thinking this way."
Moo. That horrible name she's been calling me since we were kids. Moo. Like the cow. Like me. Fat like a cow.
I hate her for a minute.
"I've got to go." I tell them. "I have a performance tonight."

Smile. Smile and bow. A lock of hair falls over my face. Imperfect. It's escaped. I'm broken.
Dress is too tight. I can feel it pressing the fat in, feel it holding me together.
They're whispering. Too fat. Too fat. Look at her. Too much. Too much fat. For one stage. Get off, get off, get off.
Watch the ensemble make their bows. Smile. My face is breaking. Smile pulls at my jaw, makes it creak and crack from the ridiculousness of trying to be happy.
I feel like crying.

Need to look good. For Mark. For me. For them.
My pants sag in the waist.
I've gained so much by losing so little.
Just a little more.
5 more. 92.
7 would be good though. 90. The best. I could make 90. If I'm careful. If I'm good.
I can be 90.
7 pounds. 7 pounds.
Not hungry Mom. No, really. Ate earlier.

"You were so beautiful, Moo."
"April, I'm much better." Grin. "It's only going to get better."
"You're hurting yourself. It's not healthy."
You call what you and Roger do on the weekends healthy?
"Maureen, talk to me."
Drink my water. Smile. She'll see.

One rib, two rib, three rib.
Hipbone check.
Pinch the fat under my arms.
Frown at my thighs.
I see it.
95 isn't good enough.
Fucking fat. Too fucking fat. Too fat. Too fat.
Stomach is empty. It's a natural high.

Smile. No thank you. No.
I said no, April.
Said no, said no. I don't want it. I'm not hungry.
Ate earlier. Eat later.
Don't want it.

"I think you should eat something." Mark says. He sounds scared.
"No, no. It's fine." See Marky? See how nice I look? Beautiful.
He looks horrified.
I'm too fat. Too fat for him.
I ate that fucking apple. No control. No sense of what's right.
Just want to be thin. Just want to be thin and lovely. Beautiful.
It's worth it. Worth it, worth it.
I'm not hungry. Smile. I'm fine. Don't worry, baby. I'm fine.
I'll be beautiful.

Cut out my diet, live for my wealth.
Starve to perfection, live for my health.