Two fingers down the throat.
Reached back. Felt that little flap of skin. Didn't bother with the purge pen--felt too impersonal. The gag reflex hit like a punch to the gut, before everything moved so easily out of me. Gentler than swallowing, the roil of the chest and stomach, the spilling of the contents, the sticky viscous fluid pouring over my fingers and arm. My teeth never clenched on my knuckles. My hand never left my throat.
Pet, pet, pet--good girl, give me a little more....
Like a reverse orgasm (as Flushed so put it), the loving, tender touches to the strangeness of my inner neck cavity bringing forth the desired results of sin and dirtiness in my gut.
200 calories purged.
.6 pounds lost.
Off to work. Server job. Rushing back and forth. Hunger. More and more, heavier and heavier. Atrophex swallowed down pill after pill. I sneak half a roll, and a quarter of a brownie. Down a teaspoon full of salt. My hands shake. The pills kick in after nearly eight. Just like the song, Hunger soon passes, sickness soon rise. Legs bent stockinged, I am Twiggy, and I don't mind the horror that surrounds me so.... The food quits being a temptation. My hands stop shaking.
Rushing between tables.
Boy shows up. I see him, see his face. He waits, watches as I move through the dinner rush. His hand rests on my hipbone and the stress melts. When I drop something in a frantic rush of my first afternoon working, he drags me back into a side room and lifts me in a hug so quick I can do nothing but wrap my legs around his waist and let him cradle me against his body. It's perfect in every sense of the word. He smells like the subtle hint of desert dust, sweat, and his shampoo. I press my face into his neck and he kisses behind my ear. Calm down, he whispers against the shell of it. And I do.
Another hour passes. He slips subtle hugs and kisses. His lips are sweet and full. My heart thunders. He picks me up every chance he gets.
And when I faint, he catches me. Tells me to eat. Kneels down in front of me and makes me vow that I will have something as soon as I get home.
I don't want to.
But I do.
Because he reminds me that one of my friends died of this.
That he knows? That I told him? Speaks volumes.
I'm falling for you, he tells me after walking me to my car, picking me up, holding me. He carries me every chance he gets. Whispers, You're so tiny, constantly. Makes me feel safe. I never have to doubt around him.
His arms are safety and everything I've been craving for, and I know distance must be kept. Like with food, the refrain makes the caving that much sweeter. I need to take things slowly, just to make sure this isn't ruined. That we don't rush in too quick and spoil this.
I feel more unsettled than I ever have in my life, but it's a sweet thing.
Toast. Real butter. A golden grahams cereal bar. Club soda.
The biggest meal of the day.
My stomach feels swollen. Disgusting.
I want to shove my fingers in my throat.
Even without it, I still feel the nausea, roiling. The stress that urges me to stay away from food. I can't eat with it this upset.
But his smile plays in my mind.
Damn it all.
But it's too cute for me to deny him this simple request.
I'm not ready to die yet.
And if he hadn't caught me, my head was aiming for a very sharp corner, and because he's not here right now, I have to make sure I don't die before I can see that smile again.
Life is a strange thing, indeed.