She is six when she watches her mother pull at her body, fingers poking and prodding the olive skin. She is watching from the sanctuary of her mother’s bed, buried beneath red covers. Her mother cups the small pouch of her belly and squeezes it tight until it turns alabaster. Her mother sighs at the sight and slides her hands to her thighs, tracing the white lines that fall like tiger stripes across her skin. She is fascinated by her mother’s dips and grooves. Her mother is not. * She is ten when her mother goes on a month-long detox. Her mother has bought new teas and supplements online – green plastic bottles of inch sized pills on the counter top. They arrived in an unmarked brown box, left behind the bins. Her mother announces her plan over dinner, as though the clotted risotto is her last supper before a pious sacrifice. Her mother isn’t religious, but for her body, she’d exalt all. * She is twelve when her mother tells her, hands a ten and two on the wheel, that one of her teammates is fat. She doesn’t say fat but that’s what she means. They are driving home from the sports hall. She’d just won her fourth netball game in a row; points clear at the top of the league. The team went to McDonald’s to celebrate the win, the teammate in question getting an extra helping of fries. Her mother sat silently in the booth, nursing a black coffee. Her mother doesn’t like fast food; isn’t good for her gut. * She is fifteen when her mother asks what she’s eaten at school. She takes for granted that her mother might mean it to be kind. She tells her mother all – the bland chicken curry, the overcooked brownie, the apple and juice box as a snack. There’s two packets of crisps and a chocolate bar on the bus home too. She asks her mother why she wants to know. Her mother tells her plainly “your belly looks larger than usual”. She tells her it’s protruding through her starchy shirt. * She is seventeen when her mother mentions that the jeans look tight. Especially around the waist. They are in Topshop, and the lighting is poor. The jeans are mid-rise, stone-washed and skinny, and she tells her mother so. “That’s not why they’re tight”, her mother says. Her mother leaves her behind the curtain to get a bigger size. She returns with a 34” waist. And another pair. High waisted. Just in case. * She is nineteen when her mother visits her at university. She’d left home five months previous. They’ve spoken on the phone almost daily. Her mother is staying in a hotel nearby. They meet in town and embrace with affection driven by distance. Her mother holds her close. Tight. When they part, her mother, like a fish eye, drinks in her features. As they walk to the restaurant her mother notes her findings. “You still haven’t lost the chubbiness in your cheeks. A little more on your hips too.” * She is twenty-one when, after a brief phone call from her mother, she goes over to a could-be boyfriend’s house. Her mother knows nothing of him. She told her mother she was busy with lectures, that she needed to hang up the call. As he undresses her, hands wandering from her chest to her navel, down and further, she thinks of her mother. Of her words for her body. The roundness of her cheeks. The paunch of her stomach. The indents of cellulite in her thighs. Her bum. Like craters of the moon. Her skirt is lifted, and his hands are between her legs before she stops him. He doesn’t understand. She isn’t ready to explain. * She is twenty-four when her mother critiques her new purchase. They are in the back-garden. Her mother is laid out on a towel, bikini on. The summer is warmer than usual. She is in a bikini too, a new one. Black. She’s going to Spain in two weeks with friends. Her mother hasn’t seen it yet, and as she sets her towel down, her mother sits up. She knows the signs – the cut is coming. Her mother tells her the bikini is nice. Though she should wear more colour. She counts to four before her mother says, as if it’s a passing thought, that she might want to work on her belly too – “tighten your abs”, before she wears it in public. * She is twenty-seven when she retaliates. They are together in her kitchen, alone; save the gaping hole between them. She has indulged in an after-dinner snack – a slice of store-bought carrot cake. Her mother made a comment, “you are what you eat”, which led to the argument. She is older now. Braver. She tells her mother to fuck off. To take her cruelty elsewhere. Out of her house. Her life. Though she doesn’t quite mean the latter. Her mother tells her she isn’t cruel. She’s kind. That she only says these things to keep her daughter healthy. She tells her mother that it she has never once been kind. Not when it comes to her body. She reminds her mother of all the remarks – each one etched on her skin. “You have always meant to cut me, and I have always bled.” * She is thirty-three when, after giving birth to her own daughter, she decides she must love her body; it’s power on Earth. It’s a slow molasses love. Like waiting for a dripping tap to fill a bathtub.
Emily discovered that she actually enjoyed creative writing in 2018, despite everything she may have previously said, and has decided to stick with it for the foreseeable future. She can be found on Twitter @emily__harrison, and has had work published with Ellipsis Zine, Storgy, Soft Cartel, Retreat West and Riggwelter Press to name a few.