Dare you to move

This is small bit of my newest book-in-progress titles 'Anorexia Files' profiling a small-town-girl by the name of Debby Alston on her journey through Anorexia. Many of the sections in this novel present a darker-toned POV that some may not like to read. Keep in mind that this is a rough draft and not the final composition. 


All eyes are on me, burning a substantial sized hole into my body as the watchers become waiters, daring me to move. They've got popcorn in one hand and a soda in the other waiting for me to do something entertaining-like a circus freak with magical powers, having the ability to get out of a straight jacket and escape the shark tank.

But how can I move when chains bind me and bite at my ankles and writs? Their daring me to move is more like taunting me to try and break free when I can't. The watchers become wrestles as they observe me do more dangling than moving, and start tossing their drinks and food at me in protest. A show is what they had come to see, and I was not giving them what they wanted.

What the don't seem to understand is that the energy is gone. The will is gone. The desire to be free has left me numb and lifeless. They expect me to muster up an extra ounce of energy so they can watch me struggle and laugh at me when I fail. I can't move. I can't think. I want to give up.

The crowd starts to holler in disappointment. I stand there chained, covered with coke and soggy popcorn-slime. I hang my head holding back the tears that threaten to flow, wishing I were anywhere but in the presence of people who only see me as a stage freak.

Unable to flee, I am forced to endure the crowds cutting words and crushing glares. I stand there weak-kneed with the black eyeliner that the Ring Master had me put on smearing down my cheeks. Looking on into the crowd nothing seemed more right at the moment that running. Running to where I had no clue. But anywhere seemed better than being chained to this forsaken wall, being looked upon as a piece of meat.

People waiting for me to do something, so that they might have their fill of entertainment watching a young girl struggle to get free. Laughing and spitting and cursing and taunting for their pleasure and satisfaction, forgetting that I am a human, too. A human with a soul, a heart, and feelings just as much the same as them.

I feel as though they are blinded by the lies of Ring Master, who assures them that this tortuous treatment they have come to call entertainment is acceptable. They don't see a girl; they see a play thing. An object. No feelings. No brain. No heart. Just an amusing object.

And yet, they fail to realize that the girl they have made an object of their fun and games is someone who is hurting inside, deeply wounded by those who have misunderstood her, abandoned her, rejected her, and failed to save her. Little hope does she have left to be free, struggle as she may. The crowd continues to taunt and swear. And as I am carried back stage. I am frightened of the prospects that await me after the show. The curtains close. My heart sinks. Thus, I allow the first of many tears fall. 


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