Amelia was a thin girl. She was a girl who never ate, not because she wanted to be skinny or because the media was telling her not to, but because she never felt hungry. Ever. Around the middle of the night, she would hear her brother go down for his midnight snack and wonder to herself, ‘what’s so great about food?’
Whenever her family went to a restaurant, she would order a slice of cheese. And as they dug into to their various meals, she would watch without a trace of envy, but with a look of disgusted awe.
‘Sweety, don’t you want anything more to eat?’ her mother would ask, honey dripping from her voice.
It was at that point that she would excuse herself, get up, walk to the bathroom and hide herself away in one of the stalls, where she would read a book that she had hidden in her purse until it was time for dessert.
When she’d come back to the table, she would catch her family rubbing their bellies and laughing hysterically; for some reason, they always found an excuse to laugh. She’d stare at them through half-lidded eyes, take her seat and play with her slice of cheese while the rest of them burped and attacked their cakes and puddings and chocolate mousse.
And as they laughed and enjoyed themselves, she hated them for it. She didn’t understand why they were so happy all the time, and she hated what she could not understand. On the car ride home, she’d stare out the window. If it was raining she’d listen to the pitter-patter of the drops against the car. If it was not, she would fall asleep.
Her dreams were the only place she ever ate.
Her dreams were the only place she ever wanted to.