Title: Miss World

Author: Jay

Archive: All those with prior permission are welcome (and hugged profusely) to archive this.
[Note: all fics accessible @ http://www.gwaddiction.com]
Category: Songfic/Angst
Timeline: TWT
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.) The lyrics of "Miss World" are from Hole's 'Live Through This' CD and are used without permission.
Rating/Warning: R. Deals with mature subject matter, including eating disorders (anorexia nervosa) and consideration of suicide. May or may not be triggering, so reader discretion is _STRONGLY_ advised in lieu of these issues. Of course, it's severe angst, Relena introspection, and character torture.
Feedback: Hit me!
Note: I just thought another warning would be fair. I'm not sure *where* this came from, frankly. I didn't do research on this, but I think it's realistic enough without out (IMHO). I'm sure that I'll eventually write a *happy* story with some of the G-girls, but they're such easy targets for angst and drama. I'm not really sure what else to say except that my conscience (or what's left of it) demanded something to face the issue with, and I'm not exactly sure why, but Relena was the character that came to mind in regards to the song as well as the topic.

Miss World by Jay

[...I am the girl you know can't look you in the eye / I am the girl you know, so sick I cannot try / I am the one you want, can't look you in the eye / I am the girl you know, I lie and lie and lie...]

I make a list in my girl's handwriting, with the loopy 'l's and the heart-dotted 'i's, written on a little scrap of paper torn from the back of a book. I carefully consider the choices that lay before me-- cupping a pen in my curious hands, tracing the paper with my curious eyes, shifting in my canopy bed that overlooks the sea-- and systematically drew thick, angry lines through each item, one by one.

My body makes smoothly curving lines beneath the cotton shift I wear.

Slitting my wrists would be too messy. My forehead wrinkles in mild annoyance-- most likely Noin would walk in and see me sprawled in a pristine little crimson puddle, blood still leaking out of the gaping slashes down my forearms, and eyes permanently glazed.

Shift in the bed again, thinking. Blood stains. Glance deploringly at the clean linen, imagining the stubborn spots of burnt red entrenched in the fabric. Little pieces of me in the cloth.

Shooting myself poses the same problem. Such a mess, such a mess mess mess. Such an inconsiderate child-- place the gun in my mouth, savor the metallic tang, pull the trigger-- Relena disappears in a spray of blood and bone as BANG oops, sorry Noin, I've ruined these immaculate ivory carpets. I didn't mean to. A careless, headless shrug that splatters more of the imagined grey matter over the carpet and wallpaper. Things happen. Maybe add a curtsy for good measure, spilling the rest of the contents of my shattered skull before her feet.

No-- poison? The thought makes me uneasy. Painful, I imagine, although the image has a charm. Sitting in an armchair, spilled cyanide over my dress, as my rigid joints collectively hold my stiffened body up, spine at a perfect angle at the waist, staring out with sightless eyes if my face is not twisted grotesquely, formally pink lips puckered in a gruesome purple and blue.

A noose, strung over the rafters, somehow. Just heave-ho, loop it around twice, swing it down, hop onto a stool, place the rough rope around my neck wincing-- rope burn can hurt like a bitch-- and jump, pretending to fly, open to be jerked back with a large snap that announces the fracture of my neck, downwards, toes pointing north, northeast, as my body swings like a ripe fruit.

My fingers touch my lips, and I realize that I can only come to one invariable conclusion.

Starve.

[...I'm Miss World / Somebody kill me / Kill me pills / No one cares, my friends / My friends...]

I can starve and make myself holy. I can starve and burn the sin out of me. I can starve-- there's no more purifying process in the world than starvation, the purging of unnecessary elements from my body as my weight drops, sloping downwards as I slowly disappear in the shadows of myself. Clap my hands, gleeful. Soon, the three-digit weight will dissipate into a clear and concise 95, which will in turn become a 92, 87, 83. At 80 pounds, I'm sure my body will have reverted to subsisting upon its own flesh to survive, breaking down fat and muscle until something delicate breaks and the insatiable need for food, substance, drives the little chemicals and processes inside me wild with the fervor to consume-- and it will gnaw at my organs, it will chew and burn everything else away until I am PURE. Devoid of anything but bone and meager skin. I run my tongue across my lips, anticipating the hunger-- the distilling element of hunger-- that will encompass the girth of my feeling.

Hunger: glorious hunger.

Soon, the breasts will disappear and the stomach will become concave. The flesh was acquiesce into the outlines of my ribcage-- I will count them nightly, massaging the taunt skin over my hips, tracing the bones like a blind man reading brail. My thighs will contract until there the slightest touch provokes a bruise, as my calves thin, and my arms, emaciated, will be too weak to lovingly pull at the skin at my shoulders. The collarbones will become prominent, standing stark on my naked body that feels every breeze. The baby fat on the cheeks will disappear, and my cheekbones will dip sharply into the withered mouth with lips like wax paper. My eyes will sink, dulling, even as the acute angles of my body jab sharply into every surface.

Starve, like a martyr with eyes hungry for heaven.

[...I'm Miss World / Watch me break and watch me burn / No one is listening, my friends / Yeah...]

The dress that used to be a snug fit now billows, slightly, loose at the waist. I sit with needle and thread, carefully taking in the waist. My vision blurs, fades into black, before snapping back to reality. The needle pricks my fingers and I manage a vicious smile, watching the blood bead. But as long as I look pretty in this dress and as long as the crown fits my head and as long I wave and smile to the people, things will be okay. My tongue is dry, throat parched, desperate for water. Water is safe. Take a small sip; lick my lips as they crack.

My coccyx digs into the chair, digging into me. Frail little hands tremble, drop the needle and thread-- where did the thimble go?-- and I slowly slip to the ground, searching for a bit of flashing metal, even as my sight swims. Take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass and the salt air that seemed, suddenly, so profound and poignant-- the motions of breathing as my lungs creak-- so comforting but disquieting that my rickety limbs were quiet.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale suddenly-- fingers playing over my ribs like the keys of a piano. Drumming on the unyielding bone, wondering if I could shrink my elemental form. Tracing the length of each rib before settling back, head against the chair, to laugh mirthlessly.

There are dark circles under my eyes.

But if I look pretty in this dress...

[...I made my bed, I'll lie in it / I made my bed, I'll die in it / I made my bed, I'll lie in it / I made my bed, I'll die in it...]

The cacophony of gibbering fear continues as the little girl inside of me cowers, screeching, somewhere in the pit of my shrunken stomach. I'm reclined on the bed, loping legs swung over the thick comforter. My hands grip the soft sheets-- so cold, what a mess-- as my knees knock together. A hollow sound amplifies in the room.

I realize, belatedly, that I'm crying. I'm crying because the little girl with blue eyes is crying inside me, hard little fists pounding into the walls of my stomach. I'm sick. Tears slick down my cheeks to drip into the hollows of my clavicles. Malnutrition makes my face sharp and angular. Sobbing because some elusive something had passed me by, like the wisps of nimbus clouds; the world spinning as I was half-asleep between the grating sheets, shivering and dreaming of bleached bones under a sunny sky. The world passed me by.

The ring on my right hand digs into my fingers. There's an ugly bruise on my left shoulder, and right under one breast, above the ribs. Patches of ugly purple blossom on my skin.

The tears stop, inexplicably. A dry tongue slips out to swipe across equally dry lips. The friction hurts. I can feel the empty spaces as my body contracts.

I realize I haven't had my period in two months.

I'm dying. I'm dying clean.

[...Kill girls watch / When I eat ether / Suck me under / Maybe forever, my friends / Yeah...]

Feverish, glancing at the assembled instruments of mercy. The blade pried from my razor that slices through paper so easily. My skin is like paper. I turn my arms over, looking at the pale underside. A swift vertical slash, as my skin parts. Papa's pistol that gleams, speaking of a sleek, mechanical death. Still too messy, but death is alluring now. I'm as clean as I'll ever be. Infant hands, placed upon the trigger. My eyes open and close, deliberating as my hands move to the blue bottle of Noin's prescription pills, little white warning label judiciously warning about overdosing. They dissolve in water after an hour. I have a glass of water with white dust that coats the bottom. Tip it into my throat, and I could close my eyes and die saintly.

My eyes wet, but no tears spill.

I'm tired of being hungry. Tired of kneeling at the sacrifice altar in my virgin's dress.

[...I made my bed, I'll lie in it / I made my bed, I'll die in it / I made my bed, I'll die in it / I made my bed, I'll cry in it...]

But I'll go hungry again, because I lack the courage to make that cut or pull that trigger or swallow the bitter brew I've prepared myself. My flaws are so innate; I'll go hungry instead.

[...And I've made my bed, I'll lie in it / I've made my bed, I'll cry in it / I've made my bed, I'll die in it / I've made my bed, I'll lie in it, my friend...]

And go lie in my bed, blond hair limp over the plumped pillows. Go, knock my knees together and massage the new bruises over my child's body. Go, disappearing as I turn in the sheets. Go, in the dress that hangs off my skinny shoulders and is loose around my scarecrow's arms. Go, wear the crown that cuts my forehead. Go, the blood of my split lips serving as lipstick. As my stomach groans, as the lines draw sharply towards my center, as the circles that makeup refuses to hide come out in the dead of night, when the world is sleeping and at rest and I'm still up, knees clacking, counting my ribs, beatific.

[...I am the girl you know, can't look you in the eye...]

I wake up from a listless slumber and rise, ready to walk with the grim reaper again.

The End

Endnote: Yikes. This dragged me away from working on 'The Dollhouse' and wouldn't let up until its conclusion. Man, am I churning out the one-shots or what? I feel *much* better having written this, though.
::smiles:: Hope it doesn't draw any particularly harsh criticisms, though. Delicate stuff.

C&C are paid with COD: Cookies On Delivery. ;-) The heck with it, I'll throw in a dancing Duo too.

Jay