Page 20 of Picture Perfect

"Of course," I acquiesce, stepping onto the machine. My legs find the rhythm mechanically, moving on autopilot while my mind continues to race unchecked.

With every stride, I feel the burn begin to build in my thighs. It's a familiar pain, a companion to the mental ache that lodges itself deep within. But today, each step pounds out a new resolve. With every drop of sweat that stings my eyes, I silently vow that this won't be forever. It can't. There will come a day when I will run for myself and not for the cruel satisfaction of my captors.

And then I'll never run another day in my life. Because I'll finally be fucking free.

"Keep it up, Addy. Perfection is pain," Cheryl taunts from the sidelines, her voice a cold caress.

"Perfection is a prison," I want to scream back, but I swallow the words along with the bile that rises in my throat. Instead, I push harder, the numbers on the display blurring into a smug sneer that I long to wipe away.

"Good," she says after what feels like an eternity, a single word drenched in approval that I neither seek nor desire. "Now, weights. Don't disappoint."

Each lift, each curl, is a battle waged. Muscles scream and sinews strain, a symphony of suffering conducted by Cheryl's unyielding gaze.

But, not too much. Wouldn't want to bulk up. That would be unladylike.

"Excellent form," she praises. The words are hollow, echoing in the emptiness where encouragement should have lived. I doubt she even means them.

"Thank you," I breathe out, plastering on the mask of gratitude.

I know the drill, know the punishment that awaits any sign of weakness. So I endure, I perform, I survive.

And when the time is right, I'll show them just how strong I've become.

I hope.

??????

The hot water ceases, and the chill of the bathroom settles in. My limbs ache with the memory of each lift and lunge, the soreness a testament to Cheryl's relentless regime.

"Out," Cheryl commands from just beyond the gossamer curtain, her voice slicing through the steam and into the marrow of my bones.

I reach for the towel, but her grip is iron on my wrist, pulling me away. "No time for that." The air is sharp as I stumble out, droplets of water trailing paths along my skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. My feet slide against the tile as I try to right myself.

"Come on, Adelaide. To the scale," she orders, her tone laced with something darker than mere impatience.

"Can't I just—?" I begin, seeking a shred of decency, a moment to shield myself.

"Silence," she cuts off my plea, her talons digging into my arm, propelling me forward. Vulnerability wraps around me, more suffocating than any fabric could ever be.

We stop before the digital arbiter of my worth in Cheryl's eyes. The cold bite of the metal platform sears my wet soles, sending a shiver up my spine. I exhale, bracing myself for whatever number will define me today.

"Look at that," Cheryl says. Her voice resonates with triumph as my weight blinks back at me, a number less than yesterday.

"Another pound down. You're getting there, Adelaide."

91 pounds. I weigh 91 pounds.

"Thank you," I murmur, though gratitude is as foreign to me in that moment as warmth. A hollow victory for her, another day of shrinking myself for the Winthrops' warped ideals.

My mind whispers rebellious thoughts. But those are fantasies, and my reality is the cold scale beneath my feet and Cheryl's smug satisfaction.

"Select an outfit. Quickly," she instructs, a general overseeing her troop—a solitary, shivering soldier.

"Of course," I answer, my voice steady despite the tremor that threatens to betray my inner turmoil. Each word is armor, shielding the core of me they haven't yet managed to breach.

"Remember, Adelaide, not a crease or a wrinkle," Cheryl calls out, her voice muffled but laced with the anticipation of finding fault.

"Understood," I mutter under my breath, selecting a modest top and knee length skirt—both devoid of warmth, both part of the uniform of perfection I'm forced to wear.

---