Incessant grease seeps out of its source; a hungry wolf devouring its prey, breeding endlessly until the food collapses from the weight of its slick, fatty companion. And as its companion's consumers persist to guzzle it down in oblivion, its cunning, stealthy fingers tamper with their feeble bodies. It's is a ghastly substance; gazing at me mockingly. I put the magazine down in disgust and glance into the sneering mirror which scorns my body with menacing eyes. Some kind of bulging beast stares back at me, and a sensation of total and utter revulsion pierces my skin.
I step hopefully onto the daunting scales. Numbers appear out of the shadows, seizing me with a soothing grasp. I sigh a deep relief and my lips curl into a smile. I'm almost there. I'm almost perfect.
I make my way to my dead, clammy refuge, where darkness spills over me. Its soothing fingers gently caress my body and it embraces me in a dense blanket of security. I squint and watch as it dances menacingly in front of my eyes, mocking my vision for its inferiority. The absence of light chases away its lies – I know I am never alone. As I reach out a slender hand and watch the spidery wisps of cobalt black weave through my fingers, I notice a vaporous draught dancing on my skin. It's cold, so much so that I exhale a flimsy white smoke. I gaze out into the open window, watching the haunted trees screech fretfully in the blustery weather. Feeble leaves cling helplessly to their faltering branches, battling the furious wind and fading into distrust. I cling helplessly to perfection, so wrapped up in its gentle blanket I'm forgetting to breathe. Every mouthful of air I take ends in an agonising wheeze and I can feel the blood of this ghastly beast inside me cascade down my face in heavy drops. It wrenches my body harshly out of its comfort zone and continues to pelt it with disapproval. My life is a constant struggle for air as my body fights furiously for its existence. Only the darkness listens to my cries of agony as the icy hands of oblivion claw at my face.
A deep gash runs through my sweltering eyes. I can't let anyone know who I really am. I loathe the blistering coat that drapes carelessly over my body, as the tainted blood will not expire no matter how hard I scrub. I despise it for its agonising imperfection which burns inside me with scorching fingertips. I hate my forever singed mind and its licking flames that trace the silhouette of my well-fed body. The smoke that prowls noiselessly through my remains is the crisp sensation of Truth, endlessly ablaze in my mind. Soon it will have scalded every fibre of my body until nothing is left but a mound of broken tar and a desolate face that stares at the world with dead eyes.
People think that imaginary things can't hurt you, but they can. They can kill you.