Reaching the Ideals

(Credits to Mrtoys.com for the picture)


Here is a piece written for my assignment recently, enjoy :)

REACHING THE IDEALS


Her right fingers reach towards her left ponytail. She catches one end of the cream coloured ribbon and gives it a little tug. Dismantling the perfect butterfly-like bow. Perfect like how her late Mother tied her hair. That very same ribbon. A bundle of chestnut coloured hair streams down and hangs just below her shoulder, like ribbons. She lets the cream coloured ribbon slide in between her hair and slither beyond her shoulder, past her naked breast. Then, it took a dive to the parquet floor, landing beside her 3 weeks old unwashed school uniform. As her eyes follow the trail of the ribbon, she catches a glimpse of her rib cage and her protruding hipbone. Her peach coloured skin clings tightly to her bones. It reminds her of a piece of chicken carcass being wrapped firmly with a plastic cling wrap. She gazes into the mirror and smile to herself. It’s a smile that Neil Armstrong would wear when he was pronounced First Man on the Moon

For her, she has succeeded to fit into a 22-inch waist jeans compared to 30-inch previously. She adores Barbie. She wanted to look just like her. More petite than Barbie even. She often wishes that God had never created fat molecules inside human body. Now, she is just two inches away from her ideal waistline. In time, she would be perfect enough to catwalk down her school hall like famous model Twiggy. Maybe then, she would not have to bear with her classmates endless chanting towards her. “ If you are not watching your figure, we are watching yours”. It became a repetitive mantra in her mind. Accompanied by the cynical giggles. Alienating eyes. Whispering girls behind her back.

She shrugs and gazes into the mirror again. She does a little twirl. She squeezes her butt cheeks and wriggles her arms. She performs the ritual so often daily that she loses count. Endless sighs follow in between. She feels that her ‘two-slices-of-bread-a-day’ diet plan is not working. She plans to reduce to half a slice. Pointless now. Her diet regime had been discovered. At times, she would screams and tugs her hair after seeing her own figure in the mirror or thought of her sabotaged ‘Becoming-Barbie’ plan. Her breathing becomes heavy. Then, she would grab her orange scissors and holds it near her thighs. That scissors used to help her make intricate paper cuttings to match her greeting cards. Nobody is allowed to touch it. After every use, she kisses it, wraps it in black velvet cloth and tucks it in a floral tin box. Then, three bows in front of the box. It has been with her since 7, almost 10 years now. Recently, the scissors no longer cut papers, but her skin. Her body became her own canvas. She cuts as she pleases. It’s her secret new hobby to kill time.

Currently, she lives in a double-layered prison cell made out of her body and her room, which diminishes her freedom. No more school. No more friends. Nothing much to do. Each meal is sent to her room now. Every six hours, she has to bear with chunks of food and colourful pills being forced down her throat. The food aroma gives her nausea. Sometimes a few familiar faces will peep through the door. Her current regime has shattered her dream to look like Barbie. Soon, she will be transferred to a special institution. To her, it is a bigger jail with other inmates like herself. By then, nothing worth reminiscing left. She prays that she will not live to see that day.