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My butterfly hand flutters closed, capturing the movement. When I entwine my fingers with his, the pulse in his wrist throbs slow and steady against my own.
My foot twitches involuntarily.
Outside the window a swollen gutter creaks in protest against ceaseless rain.
Having been without their daily run for a week, my restless legs release frustration with minor jolts.
His hand caresses my hipbone, trying to sooth my limbs into stillness.
I shake my head, "No thanks, are you still hungry?"
Nodding, he grins.
I ask partly out of curiosity. The amount of food he devours has me grossly fascinated.
The question is also a desperate attempt to divert the conversation away from where I know it is going.
"You sure you don't want something?" In hesitation, his two front teeth protrude, biting over his bottom lip. "You didn't eat much for tea."
I shrug nonchalantly.
Trying for a reassuring smile, knowing it will be unsuccessful.
"I wasn't that hungry."
He rolls away from me and clamours off the bed.
"I'll be back in a sec."
His jeans, sagging in the back, smile droopily at me as he leaves the room. I listen for the creak of footfalls to fade down the hallway before peeling up my top.
A bloated mound protrudes from above the waistband of my jeans, leering at me. I want it out. A huge, disgusting, bloated mound. I want it out and gone.
I run my hands down my torso and slowly stroke the visible ribcage and then unwillingly press up and over the abomination.
Greasy stir-fried chicken oozes around in my stomach.
An infestation, leaden and intrusive. A wave of nausea consumes me. Please get it out.
When he returns, I peer out from under the bed covers which I have burrowed into.
He struggles to nudge the door closed with his knee while balancing a pottle of yoghurt, glass of Coke and two mandarins.
Laughter bubbles from my lips as cola slops over the rim.
I scoop up the remote and direct it at the TV.
I hit play and Angelina Jolie fills the screen. Her beautiful pout smirks at me. I am perfect.
Skinny and perfect. I watch this woman who is everything I am not.
Long, lean legs. A delicate, sweeping collarbone Nicholas Cage sweeps his lips along.
Tiny waist. I am taken by surprise when he leans in and kisses me. His mouth tastes of cheese crackers. I feel sick and pull away.
"What's wrong?" He doesn't understand; doesn't understand that I feel repulsed.
I trace infinite circles round and round his chest while trying to find the words.
Year 13, Taieri College