Words

She stared down at the pen in her hand.

Why this morbid delight in destroying myself? Why the sick, twisted pleasure in pushing my body past driven and into hurting? Why? Why am I doing this? It's almost demonic. 


I think I do it on purpose, somewhere deep inside. Punishment, though for what I don't know. Maybe rebellion against my own limitations; maybe a perverse enjoyment of cruelty.


I stare bleary-eyed at the girl in the mirror, swaying with lack of sleep, lack of food, and dare her to stay awake just one more minute. You can do it, you have no limits, no boundaries. You are stronger than everything, even yourself. One more minute.


Just one more.


She dropped the pen beside the crumpled sheet of paper and walked away.