“‘ey, Junko.” Akane stares at her. “Why won’ ya eat?”
Junko Enoshima is a girl with tight skirts, tight shirts, and loose ties. Big fur jackets, swamping her small form, and red lip stick worn like armor and wielded like a knife. Short, tight, small, skinny; fitted to her body in which she makes starving an art. But she makes everything an art—the way her eye lashes lower, the way her lips pucker, the way she speaks. She was born a theater in human skin; the roles she uses and then discards just show it in microcosm. She could make dying itself an art; maybe she already does.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, a eugenicist’s wetdream—if not, of course, for the Japanese roots she can't fully wash out. Bleached blonde; suicide blonde; colored contacts. She appeals to the lowest common denominator, and that was on purpose; because, Junko Enoshima, more than a person, was a product to sell.
And what use is a product that doesn't sell?
Akane can see it in her eyes before she even answers. A history of making herself palatable, relatable, eatable. Not passive, not always, though she looks small—customizable, consumable. Bright and bold, meek and shrinking; she could wear any role with ease—and does. This is a girl who lies: packaging herself for each person she meets, dividing and rationing herself into bite sized pieces she hand feeds you—and Akane feels sick; she doesn't want to eat a bite.
A life of starving. (That's something Akane can understand, although not like this.) But maybe not; maybe what Junko Enoshima eats is simply not food, but people. (That's something Akane can understand, although not like this.) And maybe she will eat up her life, too. (That's something Akane can understand, although not like this.) Maybe Akane knew that from the start.
“Don't you already know, Akane-senpai?”
She force feeds her it; and Akane might vomit, and starve once more.