The mirrors line the walls in an endless representation of what we shouldn’t look like. Everywhere we turn, the reflection shoots back an angry accusation. With each leap, a hiss emits from the glass, reminding us of our human lack of grace; a reporter on our infinite number of faults.

Higher.

Faster.

Lighter.

The words slip in and around us, into our bones that we count as we step around the hardwood floor that seems to jump up to our toes, pushing us higher, faster, and beg us to be lighter. We cannot escape each other’s watchful eyes, spying on the competition that springs into the thick, sweaty air around us. The hardwood floor burns into the balls of our feet, threatens to blister through our heels. This will not stop for another hour.

For some, this will never stop.

At the sound of the sharp whistle in the wet lips of the instructor, we are allowed a five minute break. My moment is finally here. I can feel my stomach screaming and stretching, a punishment for my organs, and threatening to burst into my lungs and up my throat and out of my chapped, stained lips. I grab my shawl as a barrier against the frost-coated wind. A few other girls make similar decisions, but we have a secret, unspoken code. We know who runs to which buildings during the break, and where never to trespass. This is our private, but shared horror. This is the only thing getting us through to the next hour of class.

The night air is biting, and no matter how close I pull the shawl, the wind whips around me and threatens to toss me into this tree or that branch. Head down, I head for the Business Administration building that is unoccupied this time of night. There are so few students on campus at this hour, and this is an unbelievable relief not to have to use one of the dingier facilities in order to avoid prying eyes and disgusted glares; or worse, the furrowed brow of a worried official.

Avoid those with power that wish to lock you up.

The ever-present voice in my head whispers with venom on her tongue, urging me on with blind eyes. My feet know the path and I could run here in my sleep. I should be leaping there, practicing for my return. Too many of the girls are edging up to my place, and this is not acceptable.

You fucking loser.

I try to shut out the sound of her, but she’s there, lingering. She might as well be running alongside me, behind me, in front of me. She is everywhere all at once, and in that fact, I take a certain comfort that many would not understand. Who would wish for a demon to be constantly pushing them? She pushes me to be better, faster, and stronger. Better, better, better.

Finally, with three minutes left on my break, I reach my destination. Pulling the door gets harder every time I come here, causing pain in my arms as I use my whole body to enter my paradise. I take a brief inventory: no one loitering outside, threatening to expose me; no shoes under the stall doors, either. Without thinking another moment, I rush into the big bathroom that has its own sink and mirror and lock the door behind me.

You fucking loser. What took you so long?

Sticky toilet paper attaches itself to the bottom of my shoe, which disgusts me, but I ignore it. I only have two more minutes until I have to be back in the dance room. I can’t afford to be late. My nerves are already shot from a day full of the regularly stressed out parents and friends in my life.

Friends? What friends? They don’t care about you anymore, drama queen. No one needs you now. Why would they? All you ever want to do is talk about yourself and your problems and people are sick of it. You know it. I’m the only one left. Don’t worry; I am not going to leave you, ever. I’m yours, and you are mine.

The comforting, slicing words propel me toward the toilet. I lift the repulsive seat and lean forward. Pressing my stomach, I feel for the spot: the spot that has saved my knuckles from scars and venomous film all over shaking hands. The reaction from my own worn-out body is almost instantaneous. Into the water goes the half of an apple I promised to scarf for energy and after that comes the four slices of muffin I allotted myself for breakfast. I know I have finished when the shocking violet of the blueberries is in front of me. I have color-coded my purging for efficiency.

This takes less than a moment, or maybe it takes an hour, but either way, I flush the toilet and turn to the mirror behind me. A cousin of the mirror I will face on the hardwood floors, perhaps. I wash my mouth out with the faucet water and wipe the tell-tale tears from my bloodshot eyes. The swelling in my face will go down in a few minutes. No broken blood vessels this time, but my glands feel like they are throbbing. Maybe there isn’t even any blood left.

Good girl. Now run back, you have one minute to be back in front of those mirrors. Go, you fucking cow and now you know better than to act like a pig in the morning. An apple. Honestly. You couldn’t resist an apple? You are so fucking worthless. Have some self-control and you wouldn’t have to have such a disgusting habit.

Without wasting another moment, I leap from the bathroom like Superman out of his phone booth, with a feeling of faux energy that I needed. I run back into the gym, exactly as Madame blows her whistle. Other girls look on, finishing up their bottle of water or small cookie, and I can feel their envy. I suppress a smile. They know and they don’t know, but either way, they are envious of the lines of my body and Madame’s approving nods as I stretch. They wish they, too, never needed a snack break. I am always ready for the whistle, always eager to work.

I am strong.

I am stronger than them.

The mirror is waiting.