She wrapped her arms around her ribcage, shivering.

Her mother never kept the heater on unless it was at least negative 20 or 30 degrees outside, so she was always wrapped in layers upon layers of sweatshirts, sitting in her bed with piles of blankets on top. She had received a new knit hat for Christmas, and she always had it pulled low over her eyes, covering her dishwater brown hair.

She didn’t mind the cold so much, because it gave her an excuse for the sweatshirts. It was because of them that her mother never looked at her closely enough to realize that she only weighed eighty three pounds, and that she could count her ribs by merely running a finger down her abdomen.

A small salad was all she needed to survive the day. Some water, some air popped plain popcorn.

She needed to be absolutely perfect. The epitome of the all-American girl.

Maybe then he wouldn’t hate her so much.

Maybe then, he’d stop.

Maybe then, she could be truly alive.

That is, if she didn’t starve herself to death first.