libra ·
Step on the scale to determine your daily worth. Clear blue eyes dispassionately survey the plain white platform. It is routine, a sort of twisted comfort like no loving embrace or verbal assurances can give, so coldly honest while the sea of compassionate faces tells only compassionate lies. Her long, slender leg trembles slightly as she moves it forward; her tanned foot with its innocently pink-painted toe-nails contrasts starkly with the bleak white of the square platform. She steels herself. Another step. Just another day beyond the point of no return.
A mild beep signifies the device’s initiation. With an impassive face she watches the numbers as they begin to flicker greenly across the tiny screen. At first they burst forth like a flood released from its gates, rushing upwards from zero – oh, zero, that epitome of ideal and complete perfection! Steadily, then, they begin to slow to an indecisive crawl. Ninety-nine… one-hundred three… one hundred and five… Ever higher creep the ghostly green numerals. She bites her lower lip as she stares downwards, transfixed. A wispy tendril of long blond hair falls across her cheek.
One hundred and seven. One hundred and six. One-hundred seven… Perilously the numbers teeter, swaying precariously between pinnacle and precipice. She is holding her breath without realizing it. Her long feet are turned inwards as if silently imploring the screen to afford her clemency.
The number flashes suddenly, decisively. One hundred and six point two.
She does not smile in her victory, her narrow brush with utter failure; she simply gazes down at her inanimate evaluator with a face as impassive as its own. She nods once, then, and primly steps off of the scale. Her feet pad briskly across the tiled floor. The bathroom door swings open with a slight squeak and she steps beyond it, silently rejoining the outside world. Amiable chatter echoes for a moment in the hall before the voices fade away down the stairs.
She will be back, inevitably, drawn ever tighter in a noose of her own making and fighting a private war that will see her dead before she wins. Back on the cold tile floor, the green numerals flash once in finality before the screen goes blank. It matters not.
In her mind green eyes are watching.
A mild beep signifies the device’s initiation. With an impassive face she watches the numbers as they begin to flicker greenly across the tiny screen. At first they burst forth like a flood released from its gates, rushing upwards from zero – oh, zero, that epitome of ideal and complete perfection! Steadily, then, they begin to slow to an indecisive crawl. Ninety-nine… one-hundred three… one hundred and five… Ever higher creep the ghostly green numerals. She bites her lower lip as she stares downwards, transfixed. A wispy tendril of long blond hair falls across her cheek.
One hundred and seven. One hundred and six. One-hundred seven… Perilously the numbers teeter, swaying precariously between pinnacle and precipice. She is holding her breath without realizing it. Her long feet are turned inwards as if silently imploring the screen to afford her clemency.
The number flashes suddenly, decisively. One hundred and six point two.
She does not smile in her victory, her narrow brush with utter failure; she simply gazes down at her inanimate evaluator with a face as impassive as its own. She nods once, then, and primly steps off of the scale. Her feet pad briskly across the tiled floor. The bathroom door swings open with a slight squeak and she steps beyond it, silently rejoining the outside world. Amiable chatter echoes for a moment in the hall before the voices fade away down the stairs.
She will be back, inevitably, drawn ever tighter in a noose of her own making and fighting a private war that will see her dead before she wins. Back on the cold tile floor, the green numerals flash once in finality before the screen goes blank. It matters not.
In her mind green eyes are watching.
posted by Nesska @ 2:22 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home