The following story was something I wrote for a creative writing class. It's not fantasy, but I thought I'd share it anyways. Due to the sensitive subject matter, I recommend you don't read it if easily triggered.
What had Sally even seen in him? Sally with her short blond hair, doe eyes, and lips that turned purple in the cold. Sally with her quiet smile who wore tank tops in winter to show off her collarbones. Sally with her concave stomach and her perfect figure that she’d starved so hard to get. Sally who Charles loved and bought roses for on her birthday. She could get any guy she wanted and she knew it too, so why had she ever wasted her time on a loser with bad acne and greasy hair who'd failed French three times?
I should’ve been the one to break up with him. I’d never even liked him in the first place. And now, less than a week later he had a new girlfriend, this ditsy freshman who was better friends with my best friend than I am. She’s prettier than me too.
Anyways, I’m sitting in my dad’s leather armchair. It’s a really old piece of furniture from his college years or something. The seams are split and the stuffing’s coming out. You can’t lean back too far in it because some of the screws are loose, but it’s got sentimental value so we keep it. I’m sitting there eating couscous with a shaker full of salt in it. It’s so salty it’s painful to eat, but that’s the point.
The problem with binge eating is that it offers only momentary relief. For awhile you feel numb, maybe even good. For awhile it’s just you and the taste of food and you’re too busy being horrified by yourself to think about anything else. When it’s all over though, you feel disgusting. There’s the guilt, the shame, the fear. You can just feel the food turning into fat inside you. It’s clogging up your arteries, ugly yellow blubber encasing your bloated organs. Tomorrow you’ll be twenty pounds heavier and only half of that’s food weight; the rest is your own fat, building up inside you as you ponder a solution.
The only thing I could think was Sally’s probably laughing right now. I lost ten pounds and for what? For nothing? And then there’s that small reedy voice in the back of my mind, the one I don’t want to listen to and its saying, “Sally used to be bulimic.”
“I don’t want to be bulimic,” I say to it. “Besides, I’ve been trying to make myself throw up for years now. It doesn’t work.”
“Sally can do it. Are you saying Sally can do something and you can’t?” the voice says. “Pathetic.”
“No. I’m just as good as she is. I can do anything she can.” I know that’s not really true. After all, everyone loves Sally. Nobody loves me and it’s not our weight that makes us different. There’s just something special about Sally. Even when you hate her, you love her.
I kneel in front of the toilet. It’s been recently cleaned and smells like bleach. The interior is sparkling white. I stick my finger down my throat.
But even after an hour, I still can’t do it. I’m crying again. My throat feels funny. I scratched up the back of my mouth with my fingernails. Really, I need to cut them. I can’t swallow properly and I’m scared. I want to stop. There’s no point now anyways. After an hour the calories are already absorbed. But I have to see this through. If Sally can throw up, then I can do it too. I just have to try harder. You have to really want it.
So I stick my finger down my throat again and this time I keep it down, even though I feel like I’m choking. The sound I make is something like the death throes of a penguin. But this time it worked. A sticky yellow glob lands on the floor. It’s mushy and smells acidic, but there’s no doubt that’s the couscous, all mashed up like that. I guess it hadn’t dissolved in my stomach yet. I have to pick it up with my hands and plop it in the toilet, then I’ve got to scrub away all the evidence and hope no one questions why the carpet’s wet, but truth be told, even as I’m promising myself I’ll never do that again, I feel like a champion. I’ve proven myself. I can do anything she can do.
Wannalemic
Ryan wasn’t attractive or smart and I don’t think he ever dated a girl who wasn’t certifiably insane, myself included. The only thing he had going for him was that he was Sally’s ex. What had Sally even seen in him? Sally with her short blond hair, doe eyes, and lips that turned purple in the cold. Sally with her quiet smile who wore tank tops in winter to show off her collarbones. Sally with her concave stomach and her perfect figure that she’d starved so hard to get. Sally who Charles loved and bought roses for on her birthday. She could get any guy she wanted and she knew it too, so why had she ever wasted her time on a loser with bad acne and greasy hair who'd failed French three times?
I should’ve been the one to break up with him. I’d never even liked him in the first place. And now, less than a week later he had a new girlfriend, this ditsy freshman who was better friends with my best friend than I am. She’s prettier than me too.
Anyways, I’m sitting in my dad’s leather armchair. It’s a really old piece of furniture from his college years or something. The seams are split and the stuffing’s coming out. You can’t lean back too far in it because some of the screws are loose, but it’s got sentimental value so we keep it. I’m sitting there eating couscous with a shaker full of salt in it. It’s so salty it’s painful to eat, but that’s the point.
The problem with binge eating is that it offers only momentary relief. For awhile you feel numb, maybe even good. For awhile it’s just you and the taste of food and you’re too busy being horrified by yourself to think about anything else. When it’s all over though, you feel disgusting. There’s the guilt, the shame, the fear. You can just feel the food turning into fat inside you. It’s clogging up your arteries, ugly yellow blubber encasing your bloated organs. Tomorrow you’ll be twenty pounds heavier and only half of that’s food weight; the rest is your own fat, building up inside you as you ponder a solution.
The only thing I could think was Sally’s probably laughing right now. I lost ten pounds and for what? For nothing? And then there’s that small reedy voice in the back of my mind, the one I don’t want to listen to and its saying, “Sally used to be bulimic.”
“I don’t want to be bulimic,” I say to it. “Besides, I’ve been trying to make myself throw up for years now. It doesn’t work.”
“Sally can do it. Are you saying Sally can do something and you can’t?” the voice says. “Pathetic.”
“No. I’m just as good as she is. I can do anything she can.” I know that’s not really true. After all, everyone loves Sally. Nobody loves me and it’s not our weight that makes us different. There’s just something special about Sally. Even when you hate her, you love her.
I kneel in front of the toilet. It’s been recently cleaned and smells like bleach. The interior is sparkling white. I stick my finger down my throat.
But even after an hour, I still can’t do it. I’m crying again. My throat feels funny. I scratched up the back of my mouth with my fingernails. Really, I need to cut them. I can’t swallow properly and I’m scared. I want to stop. There’s no point now anyways. After an hour the calories are already absorbed. But I have to see this through. If Sally can throw up, then I can do it too. I just have to try harder. You have to really want it.
So I stick my finger down my throat again and this time I keep it down, even though I feel like I’m choking. The sound I make is something like the death throes of a penguin. But this time it worked. A sticky yellow glob lands on the floor. It’s mushy and smells acidic, but there’s no doubt that’s the couscous, all mashed up like that. I guess it hadn’t dissolved in my stomach yet. I have to pick it up with my hands and plop it in the toilet, then I’ve got to scrub away all the evidence and hope no one questions why the carpet’s wet, but truth be told, even as I’m promising myself I’ll never do that again, I feel like a champion. I’ve proven myself. I can do anything she can do.
