I listen to the sound of upchuck as it plops into the toilet water, chunk by chunk. My throat burns with the last heave. I drag a gush of air into my lungs and wheeze it out as I rest my forehead on the toilet bowl. My hair is glued to my face, the sound of my breath echoes in the toilet bowl, and a drop of sweat beads down my cheek and drops into the vomit. One more time I force my fingers down my throat. I gag. Nothing. I gag again. My ribs buckle inward as my stomach muscles clench and my eyes pulse and my knees bruise from kneeling on the icy gray marble. My hand slides over green slime gathered in clumps between the cracks in the repulsively painted wall as I grip for support while I purge. I repeat the process until my stomach growls and I am hungry again.
I cling onto the washbasin and pull myself up. I flush the toilet. The gush echoes. I face the mirror. I see a woman of twenty glaring back at me. Blood red veins crawl across her sclerae and around her dark green irises. Large black circles ring her eyes. Thin strands of dirty blonde hair plaster to her pale face. Her teeth are yellow. Her features are sad. I open the white medicine cabinet and pop a dose of Prozac, along with a handful of laxative pills. Cold tap water gushes into my cupped hands and I splash my face three times – once for me, once for her, and once to wash away the sadness.
I zombie out the bathroom door, down the hallway, and into my bedroom. The bed is king sized and messy; the drapes are beige and pulled shut. A “Nothing Tastes Better Than Skinny Feels” poster hangs on the open closet door and dirty jeans spill onto the floor. My Takamine acoustic guitar stands in the left corner of the room. It collects dust. I drop face-first onto the bed, letting my feet hang off the sides.
My stomach grumbles.
I head down to the kitchen. Yanking the fridge door open, I fumble for a bag of toast. I dig into the bag for a slice. I spring roll it and consume it in two bites.
I eat twelve slices, folding cheese into them out of boredom.
Over 3000 calories.
I’m still hungry. A half-eaten chocolate cake teases me. Normally, I hate chocolate – but not today. I let my fingers sink into the brown lava. I let my teeth follow. Goodbye cake. I scan the fridge for leftovers and move onto the cupboards. A bag of chips and three KitKat bars sit on the top shelf. I am full, Thanksgiving dinner full, but I am still hungry. And so, I eat. I eat until I feel my stomach press against my lungs. I eat until the food flows up my esophagus, and piles at the brink of my throat. And then I stop.
I take a seat at the kitchen table and lay my head against it.
I breathe slowly.
I feel sick.