How could I forget? Flashback Friday!

I know I haven't done one for two weeks..

A lack of laptop doesn't really help as well...

Anywho!

Very old story I did.. and I really do need to come back to it..

Perfection

I stand in the middle of my room, hesitant to come closer to the mirror. My white T-shirt with winnie the pooh on it drapes over my plump body. I scuttle to the bathroom, face to face with my own unbearable reflection. Large black circles are around my brown eyes. My red tipped fingernails analyse ever imperfection on my face: the red blemish sticking out on my right cheek and the group of small red bumps on my square chin. I groan to myself, the lines on my forehead show in the mirror as I run out of the bathroom. I rummage for the latest health and beauty magazine that I bought. A woman whose body is like a pole, poses provocatively on the front page, her shiny made up face looking into my brown eyes. I flick the pages, remembering I saw an article on skincare. My slender fingers swipe across each page until I see the word “blemishes.” My eyes widen, scanning every instruction and direction. I dump the magazine, and scurry back to the bathroom. Cold, slimy, sticky, warm"I put different products in the palm of my hand. My index finger, the red polish starting to chip, I wipe the cream on my forehead, cheeks and chin. I slam the container on the ledge, and I look at myself. My hair is ruffled, and the crust still dangles from my eyelashes. I press my plump lips together and vigorously wipe off the cream with a piece of toilet paper. I notice a little beam of sunlight shining on the black carpet. I grab the rough material until I can’t see it anymore.

“Tiff! Breakfast!” My mother shouts from downstairs.

I roll my eyes, and stroll out of the room, cautiously descending each step. I see the light shining from the kitchen. I see the food on the table; the steam is floating away from the food.

“I’m going back upstairs mom.” I say with no emotion.

“Why? You need to eat something, you haven’t had anything all day.” She says, without laying her eyes on me.

“Well, I’m not eating.”

Before I let my mother say anything, I’m already upstairs in my dark room. I turn the lock slowly, feeling the cold metal and head to my bed. I sit down on my bed, it creaks. I grunt looking around my room. I notice my mirror again. I flinch, my brunette hair brushing across my shoulders. I take a deep breath and get up. I stretch to the curtain, letting a small beam of sunlight illuminate the room. My flat feet brush across the black carpet. My image in the mirror gets bigger. I stare at my reflection. I put my hands on my hips, like the models do, analysing every part of my body. I put my two index fingers on either side of my mouth forcing my lips to pout. I let out a sigh. I lift up my long shirt; revealing my round belly folding over my pants. I rub my belly, holding onto the roll of skin hanging. I take my hands off it; taking a deep breath, I suck in my gut. A smile creeps onto my lips. It disappears. I examine my body: bumpy, smooth, bumpy again. Stretch marks. I scoff and I let my shirt cover my body. I shake my head and gaze at the side table drawer. I scurry over and open up the last drawer. The sunlight has disappeared, as I rummage through it. A bottle. The contents inside of it rattle like a maraca. I perch on the edge of the bed; my hands shaking, I pour the contents in my chubby palm. I fold my fingers over it and close my eyes.