The Revenge of One Humiliated

Élianor

The mirror in the entryway is my first enemy of the day. I lower my eyes too late. I've already seen the shapeless mass, the face too round, the beige sweater that bulges in all the places I'd like to hide. I'm seventeen years old, and my reflection is that of a shadow, thick and ill-defined.

A grunt behind me.

"You're blocking the way, Élianor. Can't even move around in our own house because of you."

My sister Liora's voice is a cleaver. She slips past me, thin and mean as a snake, her high school athlete's body gliding through the space without effort. Her gaze looks me up and down, a sneer of disgust on her lips.

"Seriously, try to stand up straight. You look like a sack of potatoes. And that sweater... what's it supposed to hide, exactly? The shame?"

I clench my teeth, my heart pounding fit to burst. Each word is a sting, precise and familiar. I shrink against the wall, the cold paint through the fabric, wishing I could disappear into the wallpaper flowers. I'm in my own home, and yet, I'm in the way. An awkward piece of furniture.

At the table, breakfast is another minefield. The smell of toasted bread, which should be comforting, smells like judgment. My mother heaves a theatrical sigh when she sees me take a slice.

"More bread, dear? You know, with your... constitution, maybe you should think about fruit. An apple is so refreshing."

She says "constitution" like one might say "shameful disease." She never really looks me in the face; her gaze slides over me like a persistent stain.

My father, behind his newspaper, chimes in without even looking up. His voice is an edict, distant and without appeal.

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

Liora, right on cue, snickers, spreading a generous layer of butter and jam on her own toast.

"Discipline, she doesn't know. The only thing she's good at is filling her plate. And even then, half the time, she misses it."

Her shrill laugh pierces the room. I lower my head, cheeks burning. The toast I'm chewing tastes like ashes and guilt. Each bite is a sin, each chew damning proof of my lack of willpower. I am their designated scapegoat, the manufacturing defect in this family that considers itself perfect. Their contempt is a lead weight that crushes me a little more each day, burying me a little deeper.

The street leading to the high school is an ordeal I walk every morning, my stomach in knots. I'm seventeen, and I should be dreaming of freedom, first kisses, the future. Instead, I dream of invisibility. The glances of passersby slide over me, look away with cruel indifference or poorly concealed amusement. Whispers that crackle like a fire of twigs. Stifled laughs that sting the back of my neck. I recognize some faces. Former classmates who pretend not to see me. Neighbors who nod with false pity.

"Watch out, here it comes," murmurs a voice from a doorway.

"Move it, the boat's coming into port," shouts another, louder, from across the street.

I stare at the sidewalk in front of my feet, the cracked asphalt, the squashed gum. I try to make my body smaller, less visible, to hunch my shoulders, to suck in my stomach. In vain. My very existence is an inconvenience, an anomaly in the orderly, clean landscape of this small provincial town. I am the fat one. Fat Élianor. The one they laugh at between classes. The one they pity, sometimes, with a furtive glance quickly averted, before turning back to join in the general mockery.

I walk, head down, carrying the weight of their stares. Carrying the weight of my family. Carrying the weight of my own flesh, become a prison from which I don't know how to escape. Each step is an humiliation. Each breath, a shame. At seventeen, I am already a ruin, and the day has barely begun. The worst, I know, awaits me behind the high school doors.