"What are you doing?!"
I blushed down at the bowl of ice cream in my hands. "I don't know," i admitted. "Just let me finish it, please, Ana. Then i won't eat anything else, i promise."
"Hell, no!" And she snatched it away from me. "What were you thinking? You've already had your 200 Calories for today, and this--" She pulled the carton out of the freezer and read the nutrition facts label on it-- "is over 200 Calories all by itself!"
I hung my head. "I know," i said. "Its just... i got so tired. Tired of trying so hard. Tired of being hungry. Tired of feeling tired..."
"What? Are you weak?" Ana snarled.
"No," i answered her, though my mind screamed at me that i was, in fact, very very weak.
"Then shape up and prove it."
I nodded. "I will." And then, for no apparent reason, i burst into tears. "Damn PMS," i sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Ana."
"Yes, well we'll have to fix it tomorrow. Now quit your crying, and go for a run."
I should have known better than to eat; i should have known better than to think Ana would let me. I should have known better than to think she would take pity on me; i should have known better than to hope for a day of rest. But, in reality, it all was my fault. I was just a screwed-up, hormonal, fat-ass mess. "Fix me, Ana," i whispered.
"I will, sweetie," she assured me, dumping the soupy, disgusting slop that was all that remained of my ice cream. "I will."