When I was a real girl, every day was full of sunshine, every thought full of joy.
That was before everything happened. It's not anyone's fault though.
They tell me, "Mia, don't blame yourself, it was..."
They get quiet after that. It usually ends up with a sorry.
Why can't they get any more original?
Sorry for what, though?
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. ….Sorry.
If you repeat a word over and over, it loses its meaning.
I sit down at the sticky, coffee-stained table. It's good Sally couldn't cook if it saved her life.
I hear my aunt coming down the stairs.
Click, clack, click, clack, every step, every move measured perfectly.
She is the opposite of my mom.
Sincere, professional... fake.
I can smell her designer's perfume from here.
I want to gag.
It's been 5 minutes.
She finally reaches the kitchen, all of her skinny body and thick makeup coated face.
She fishes out a carton of donuts.
She has started her role in the play.
It's my turn now.
I take out a chocolate glazed donut (250).
The fat leaks through into my skin, where it will creep slowly towards my insides and get ready for hibernation.
I gently set it down on a delicate china plate.
The key is distraction.
Incorporate slow movements with conversation and you never lose.
At least not here, not with her.
I break the silence.
"Good morning," I force myself to say.
The robot in front of me flashes a wide smile.
Pearl white teeth, perfectly smooth red lips.
"How are you doing?" she responds.
We both know what she really means.
I get a butter knife and cut the gooey, brown covered dough in front of me.
First into halves, then quarters.
I end up with 16 perfect little pieces of donut.
Sally is eying me.
I pick up a triangle and stuff it into my mouth.
I am still choking down the poison when she starts 'the talk'.
The talk about Mia and her struggles,
her weight, her habits, what goes in her mouth.
"Not to be prying or anything, but..." she doesn't finish.
Why do people do that?
It's not like I read minds.
Out of all the people I could have this talk with, this plastic doll in front of me is the last person I'd have it with.
Or any conversation, for that matter.
Unfortunately, I do know what she wants.
Instead of dragging me on the scale herself, I am trusted to weigh and report myself to her weekly.
For someone so fake, she has no idea how to detect one.
Or maybe she honestly believes herself to be true.
I open my mouth.
Her phone rings.
Miss Sally is late.
Sometimes I almost feel bad for how I treat her.
She rushes out the door without another word.
I hate her.