A/N: Just a dark Lia-centric oneshot. You'll either like it or hate it.

I spit a bloody glob into the toilet, stand up, and flush. Failure still burns, acrid, in the back of my throat.

Being fat is hard.

Being skinny is easy.

(Once you get there.)

Jennifer paid for the manicure I've just ruined. I should feel bad about that – the hour spent trimming, buffing, and polishing gone to waste.

I don't.

I can't feel anything. Not sadness, not anger, not pity, or more complex things like remorse and love.

I think that as my recovery was pushed away, Ana and Mia decided I could do without feelings as well.

And I can't say I mind this apathy – I can't say that I would rather have emotions occupying the black nothingness inside me.

(I think emotions weigh people down more than anything does.)

Ana and Mia are very contradictory people. They're two voices inside my head who both want the same thing (skinny, bitch) but it's like they're exempt from the rules they enforce so strictly when it comes to me.

Eat this, not that. Have half a serving. Better yet, why not have a quarter of a serving? Hey! Eat nothing, nothing at all.

They chant these rules I'm expected to follow (and I do, like the good, almost-skinny girl that I am) but don't adhere to them themselves.

I know they cheat.

They've eaten away my heart, my soul, and become the fat whale I see when I look in the mirror. The fat whale they don't want me to be.

If they can break the rules, so can I.

I step on the scale and run my fingers down my ribs. I can touch each bone individually; I can see every vein standing out bluish-purple against the snowy landscape of my skin. There's fine hair growing again, more of it than I've ever seen before.

I hold my breath, suck in my stomach, and look down at the digital display that screeches my sins.


It hits me only now that I will never reach 00.000 – ultimate goal weight. Zero. Nothing. Gone. Molecular. Dust.

Zero is impossible.

Zero is the only way I'll ever feel alive.

And if that's never going to happen – no matter how much I restrict, purge, run, sweat, starve…

What's the point of trying any more?

My hand reaches for a razor, searches for the familiar cool silver of a blade…

Cut deep enough this time.

I paint myself in crimson and float away.