Swallow

The cold, expensive marble of Mildred's bathroom felt as sterile and unforgiving as the mirror staring back at her. "Frumpy, greasy, chubby Mildred. Zitty, dorky, ugly Mildred. Weak, slow, stupid Mildred." The cruel litany of insults, replaying on a loop in her mind, was her unwelcome alarm clock every morning.

Her reflection, a girl with sad, mud-brown eyes, seemed to absorb every taunt she'd ever heard. Unibrow. Mouth breather. Raggedy Ann. Crater face. Piggy. Each word a fresh wound, carving deeper into her already shattered self-esteem. She knew these labels weren't inherent; they were carved into her by the relentless mockery of her peers. Without their constant judgment, her hair would just be hair, her skin just skin. But their words had reshaped her reality, leaving her to see only the monster they had created.

She eyed the silver bathroom scale, its digital numbers glowing accusingly. Two pounds heavier than last week. The chocolate pie. The cupcakes. All her efforts, all her desperate attempts to conform, felt utterly useless. Tears, thick and murky like her eyes, welled up and slid down her cheeks, soaking into her unicorns-and-rainbows pajama top. The wet circle on the fabric grew, just like her.

With a frustrated cry, she kicked the scale. It clanged against the marble bathtub, then lay still. "Stupid scale," she mumbled, the words heavy with the bitterness of a thousand unsaid retorts. School, she knew, would be no different than this desolate morning. Just another day in hell, where she was the easiest target.