Better Off Dead by Eva Sloan Read Free Book Online Page A

almost more than she could bear.
    Maybe I’ll just call off?  She pulled herself to her feet holding on to the nearby sink.  I don’t think they’ll really be expecting me...hell, I don’t even think I’m in shape to even get on the bus...
    Her mind lost the thread of what she was thinking.  She was peering into the ancient oval mirror bolted to the wall over the sink.  Even with fuzzy patches, and more than a few streaks where the silver backing had peeled over time, she had a perfectly clear view of herself in that mirror.  And that view wasn’t good.
    She took a deep, shuddering breath as she tried to comprehend that the girl in the mirror was her.
    The girl looking back at her didn’t resemble her in the least.  Never mind the tacky blue polo shirt plastered to her, sticky and cold with special sauce.  This girl had some major problems.  Her hair was a greasy, tangled mess.  The ends fried at least an inch, her lustrous mane of mahogany hair now a mousy, faded-out brown, caused by sun damage and no central air, unfiltered tap water and supermarket hair product. 
    Her skin was pale and sallow, and not only were her eyes bloodshot, but they had ugly dark circles under them.  And there on her chin, puffy and red, with a volcanic looking white head, pulsed her very first zit.  She’d been going to a dermatologist since she was twelve; she’d thought she would always be immune.
    As she pried her gaze from that horrid pimple, she gapped as she realized she wasn’t just five pounds overweight.  No.  She was at least ten pounds—which was absurd, especially after she’d just barfed up half her bodyweight.  Yet, as she turned and gazed at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t deny it.  Her flat belly was gone.  Her perfect, perky— real —breasts had lost their perk, and were actually starting to sag.  She turned and looked to her rear end.  The ass she used to put a finger to and make a sizzle sound through her teeth about, just drooped—large enough that her cheap black slacks seemed on the verge of splitting.
    Whatever little strength she had left drained out the bottom of her feet.  She leaned against the sink, her arms holding her up, but just barely, and tried to breathe.  But every time she looked into the mirror she just couldn’t take in any breath.  Her eyes started to burn again, and tears welled up in them.
    This isn’t me...  She gripped the edge of the sink.  This can’t be me...
    Despair flowed cold and dark through her veins.  It was almost welcome, that cold.  At least it was making her feel numb, where as the sight of herself in the mirror was making her nauseous, and the burning in her head down through her arm was enough to make her scream.  She wanted that cold despair to wash over her, make her pass out, make her vanish from sight, from the world.
    This can’t be me...
    Then who is it?  whispered a mean little voice in her head.  Who’s this disgusting, pathetic creature staring back at you from the mirror? 
    The voice cackled with cruel delight.  I thought you’ve never met a mirror that didn’t like you?  This one, it’s safe to say, hates your guts!
    She something flared in her head.  Not the wicked ache and pain, nor the dizziness from before.  No, this was different.  This was hot and sharp, and wonderfully familiar.  This was her getting pissed. 
    That heat bloomed with utter annoyance, and a red slash of anger, as it traveled down through her body to her chest, and then radiated through her cold, aching limbs, replacing the chill of despair in its wake.
    She looked down at her hands, the chipped, uneven nails, the gnarled cuticles, the grit and gunk embedded underneath.  Lucy clenched her teeth as she balled up her hands into fists, and then beat them down hard on the sink counter, staring with utter hatred at the personal-grooming-impaired girl in the mirror.
    That’s.  Not.  Me.
    The mean little voice in her head started to say something,