The Revenge of One Humiliated

Élianor

The mirror in the entrance is my first enemy of the day. I look down too late. I have already seen the shapeless mass, the too-round face, the beige sweater that clings in all the places I wish to hide. I am seventeen, and my reflection is that of a shadow, thick and ill-defined.

A grunt behind me.

— You're blocking the way, Élianor. We can't even move around our own house because of you.

My sister Liora's voice is a cleaver. She slips in front of me, thin and mean like a snake, her athlete's body gliding through the space effortlessly. Her gaze scorns me, a grimace of disgust on her lips.

— Really, try to stand up straight. You look like a sack of potatoes. And that sweater… what is it supposed to hide, exactly? The shame?

I grit my teeth, my heart pounding. Each word is a sting, precise and familiar. I press against the wall, the cold paint through the fabric, wishing I could disappear into the flowers of the wallpaper. I am at home, yet I feel out of place. A cumbersome piece of furniture.

At the table, breakfast is another minefield. The smell of toast, which should be comforting, is a scent of judgment. My mother lets out a theatrical sigh when she sees me take a slice.

— More bread, darling? You know, with your… build, perhaps you should think about fruit. An apple is so refreshing.

She says "build" like one would say "shameful disease." She never really looks me in the eye, her gaze sliding over me like I'm a persistent stain.

My father, behind his newspaper, chimes in without even lifting his eyes. His voice is an edict, distant and unappealable.

— She's right, Élianor. Obesity is a disease. It requires discipline. Willpower. Look at your sister.

Liora, of course, snickers, spreading a generous layer of butter and jam on her own slice.

— Discipline is something she doesn't know. The only thing she knows how to do well is fill her plate. And even then, she often spills some.

Her laughter, sharp, pierces the room. I lower my head, my cheeks burning. The slice I’m chewing has a taste of ash and guilt. Every bite is a sin, every chew an overwhelming proof of my lack of willpower. I am their designated scapegoat, the manufacturing defect of this family that wants to be perfect. Their disdain is a leaden shroud that crushes me a little more each day, burying me deeper.

The street that leads to school is a torment I walk each morning, my stomach knotted. I am seventeen, and I should be dreaming of freedom, first kisses, the future. Instead, I dream of invisibility. The gazes of passersby slide over me, turning away with a cruel indifference or barely concealed amusement. Whispers crackle like a twig fire. Stifled laughter stings the back of my neck. I recognize some faces. Former classmates pretending not to see me. Neighbors nodding with false pity.

— Watch out, it's coming, murmurs a voice from a porch.

— Move it, the boat is coming into port, shouts another, louder, from across the street.

I fixate on the pavement in front of my feet, the cracked asphalt, the crushed chewing gums. I try to make my body smaller, less visible, to hunch my shoulders, to pull in my stomach. To no avail. My very existence is a nuisance, an anomaly in the tidy, ordered landscape of this small provincial town. I am the fat one. Fat Élianor. The one they laugh at between classes. The one they sometimes pity with a fleeting glance quickly averted, before turning back to better participate in the general mockery.

I walk, head down, carrying the weight of their gaze. Carrying the weight of my family. Carrying the weight of my own flesh, which has become a prison I don’t know how to escape. Each step is a humiliation. Each breath, a shame. At seventeen, I am already a wreck, and the day has only just begun. The worst, I know, awaits me behind the school doors.