Jars of Fat - a Short Story

She gripped the blade and inspected her pale flesh. She examined to two blue veins - which stood in stark contrast to her skin - through which a regenerated adrenaline was now pulsating. The thrill was heightened when the cold blade came into contact with her translucent skin. Her heartrate increased rapidly. She froze. She was attempting to decipher how she came to the conclusion that feeling pain would be better than her current state of numb consciousness.

The first deciding factor she was able to identify was the harsh announcement of her parents’ divorce. It catalysed the formation of an icy abyss which was methodically ruminating on larger and larger chunks of her being. She questioned whether she would eventually have any shred of identity left. The abundant flow of words of derision flung around her home lately had been collecting in one giant jar of fat. This jar of fat was the first in an encompassing wall of similar containers; slowly contracting and stifling the girl. The fat overflowed and morphed into tears as she recalled stale phrases lacking in affection, yet monotonously repeated: “It’s not your fault”; “They still love you”; “They are only human, but don’t love you any less...”

The words droned on in her head until she boldly made the first horizontal cut. It stung somewhat, but was dissatisfactory since no crimson appeared. Familiar icy words began resonating in her ears, “As always, your actions are a feeble attempt.” These words formed part of an array of greasy stains which degraded her self worth. It was one of the jars of fat which bore witness to her whispered prayers begging to pass away as she slumbered; for she craved the peace she could only hope such a mercy death would bring. However, as she had come to expect, this kind of mercy never materialised.

Thoughts of the same calibre kept beckoning to her from a vacuum within her comatose state. She fought them in the only manner she thought possible: pressing down with more vigour... And yet the crimson remained stubbornly docile. She blamed the jar of fat she thought her body to be. Every time she glanced at the mirror, an inept blob stared back with an unrelenting haunting expression. She undertook many ineffective slimming techniques too. She managed to survive on one small carton of yoghurt every day, but was soon betrayed by her will power. She then turned to bulimia. When that process became too laborious she abandoned it completely, believing that she had once again proved to be a stale human being: breathing, but not alive.

The atmosphere slowly grew more claustrophobic as she saw the jars of fat - her own fat - intricately being pieced together around her. She once again attempted to make the incision, and smiled as success started dripping down her arm. The tingling sensation revived her from the looming comatose state, but also revived the raging abyss. She contemplated her future - was it worth hoping for one?

In this moment of contemplation she met herself. She stared at the crimson stain on her arm. Her thoughts then travelled to her little sister who was sleeping in the adjacent room. She cursed for being selfish enough to think that she was the only person suffering from the devastation which was ripping through their family. She wiped her wrist with the inside of her sleeve and started crying uncontrollably - perhaps in an attempt to dissolve the fatty structure stifling her identity. She refused to accept that the fat was in the fire. She stood up with a new found determination to remain steadfast in the hope that all things would work together for her good.