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L.D.

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Your main commentary should be focused on THAT and THIS used as determiners. Additional topics may also be addressed. Charlotte examines herself in the full-length mirror which, not quite long 35 has no need for it. She’ll be fine, better without it, better without them. Get rid enough to live up to its name, is nailed into a position on the wall so that it of it all, Charlotte! No more food, no more fat, no more dumb dreams, no cuts off her ankles and feet and shaves an inch from the top of her head. more lies, no more doubts, no more self-pity, no more pain, no more Peter, no Why couldn’t it subtract a bit from the middle? Not a chance. Hello, Mrs more Rebecca, no more! Charlotte has been doing this every night for two 5 Blobby, in the track-suit bottoms, baggy pullover and pale, pale skin. She weeks now. Every night which Charlotte spends alone in the flat while frowns. She might not have any noticeable gashes or bums or slice marks, 40 Rebecca is out with him. By next summer, she tells herself, she will be a sleek but nor has she Rebecca’s angelic face (make-up or none) or her Cindy new Charlotte, capable of wooing men far superior to Peter, capable of leaping Crawford body which clothes and men cling to with pleasure. Charlotte’s over competition like Rebecca in a single bound. It’s only September lumbering mass fills all the edges of the mirror’s frame. Everywhere she remember, she’s got plenty of time, especially at this pace. She is up to 500 10 looks ...

Informations

• Publié par: Zaun
• Nombre de lectures: 48
• Langue: English

Extrait

Your main commentary should be focused on

THAT

and

THIS

used as determiners. Additional topics may also be addressed.

Charlotte examines herself in the full-length mirror which, not quite long

enough to live up to its name, is nailed into a position on the wall so that it

cuts off her ankles and feet and shaves an inch from the top of her head.

Why couldn’t it subtract a bit from the middle? Not a chance. Hello, Mrs

Blobby, in the track-suit bottoms, baggy pullover and pale, pale skin. She

frowns. She might not have any noticeable gashes or bums or slice marks,

but nor has she Rebecca’s angelic face (make-up or none) or her Cindy

Crawford body which clothes and men cling to with pleasure. Charlotte’s

lumbering mass fills all the edges of the mirror’s frame. Everywhere she

looks, from every angle, there it is - fat, fat, fat. Pinching more than an inch

is a laughable understatement. She can grab whole yards of the stuff.

Charlotte tilts her head back until her double chin is stretched taut. Through

slitted eyes, she views this more flattering reflection. If only she could walk

around like this without tripping. Why was she cursed with this body? it

wasn’t fair. In the beginning with Peter, Charlotte insisted that he turn the

lights out when they went to bed. She couldn’t bear for him to see her

cellulite or her ample bum. Even in the dark, it embarrassed her to have his

hands moving over her, over the folds of her belly, back over the bumpy,

rough hills of cellulite and the stretch marks which cut like tributaries

through them. He traced the bumps and grooves curiously as she tried to

restructure their landscape in her mind. She held her breath and sucked in

her stomach, moulding it to him as he held her.

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‘Pathetic!’ She sticks her tongue out at her reflection. ‘I hate you,’ she

says to the mirror. She imagines another more perfect face staring back at

her and jabs at the image with her thumb which leaves its smudgy print on

the glass. ‘I hate you, Rebecca.’ No, no, none of that, Charlotte scolds

herself. She drops to the floor and rips into a rep of sit-ups. Crunch that

tummy, crunch, crunch. In her head, she recites another refrain of her

mantra. Get rid of it. Get rid of all her feelings for him, get rid of all the

pain. Squeeze it out. No place for that on her new lean body. With each

droplet of sweat, each time she pees or takes a shit, she’ll be squeezing out a

little more. Purification of body and mind. The food and what it does to her

body, that is the pain, same as Peter, same as Rebecca. No place for it. Get

rid of it. She won’t even feel hunger any more because she doesn’t want it,

has no need for it. She’ll be fine, better without it, better without them. Get rid

of it all, Charlotte! No more food, no more fat, no more dumb dreams, no

more lies, no more doubts, no more self-pity, no more pain, no more Peter, no

more Rebecca, no more! Charlotte has been doing this every night for two

weeks now. Every night which Charlotte spends alone in the flat while

Rebecca is out with him. By next summer, she tells herself, she will be a sleek

new Charlotte, capable of wooing men far superior to Peter, capable of leaping

over competition like Rebecca in a single bound. It’s only September

remember, she’s got plenty of time, especially at this pace. She is up to 500

sit-ups and 500 leg-lifts a session. Then she runs in place for about 20 minutes,

sometimes she jogs around the flat or jumps on Rebecca’s bed, chanting her

mantra at the top of her voice. She collapses now, on her stomach on the floor,

panting hard. She doesn’t exactly feel good about the situation, but she’s

beginning to feel better. Or in any case, the pain is starting to recede. Slightly,

it seems more muted, removed, remote. There is still sadness, and that ache in

her gut, but it feels elsewhere, buried. Like someone else is experiencing it,

experiencing all these humiliatingly precise moments of agony over her friend

and her boyfriend, ex- boyfriend, ex-friend. Someone very close, someone

Charlotte can relate to intensely and feel sorry for, but still, it is someone else,

someone else’s moments, and she is just observing, safely from a distance, it’s

strange, this remoteness, but more comfortable than the other. Thinking of her

imminent move helps, too. She pictures the flat in West Hampstead. Her own

room - small but private. And Liz, her best friend, her real and true friend, just

on the other side of the wall. Whenever she hears the phone ring, and knows

it’s him for Rebecca, whenever she imagines them walking hand in hand, both

of them radiating their beauty and health shamelessly and making heads turn

in envy, she thinks of her new home, of her new flatmates standing at the door,

waiting to welcome her with open arms. A refuge, escape. The upside of this

whole terrible débâcle.

Terry P

ADDOCK

(UK),

Beware the Dwarfs

, 1999