Skin and Bones

I wake up by the horrible sound of my alarm clock. I hate that fucking thing. I punch the button on the top of it and bury my face in my pillow. I lie there a little.
There’s a knock on my door.

“Frankie?” I grunt.
“I’ve made you pancakes.” I sigh and roll my eyes in my mind. She tries too hard. I sit up anyway. I look down at the tray on my sheets. Three pancakes. Jam. Sugar. Syrup. And a glass of juice.
It doesn’t look inviting at all. It looks like a feast. It’s disgusting.
“Please just try and eat some, honey?” My mom strokes a straw of hair behind my ear. I swallow lightly.

I pick up the fork and cut into the pancakes. They separate from each other, and the sticky mass between them makes my stomach turn. I focus of the fork as I continue to press it through the layers of pancakes. I swallow.

I take one layer of cut out pancake into my mouth and look up at my mom as I start chewing. She doesn’t look satisfied. I thought it was a big piece. Huge.

I feel slightly sick while chewing – each time my teeth try to touch each other, food is being squeezed between them. It makes my throat tighten. I swallow anyway.

I take the next layer of cut pancake. Then the next. I swallow it all down by emptying the glass of juice.

I look up at my mom. She looks slightly content.

“I gotta get ready for school, mom.” She sighs.

“Okay, sweety.” She stands, grabs the tray and walks out of my room. I get up and find a pair of pants and a t-shirt. I grab my bag – having time to check that I’ve got everything I need for the day – before I walk out of my room.

“Bye, mom!” I yell, before I exit the house. I walk down the street. I start feeling sick. The juice is repeating on me, and the pieces of pancake feel like bricks in my stomach. I speed up my walk. I know I’ve got plenty of time to get to school today, which means I’ll have plenty of time to blow chunks before class. I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it down.

When I’m through the school’s entrance I start speed-walking through the hallway. I reach the first bathroom and run into a stall. I manage to click the lock, before I turn around and empty my gut in the toilet. The sight of the yellow spray exiting my mouth makes me even sicker. My stomach turns and more yellow sprays out of my mouth. I gulp, before more pours out of my mouth. My throat hurts. My head and stomach feels heavy. My legs feel weak.

My knees meet the hard, tiled floor hard. I wrap my hands around the toilet seat. My backpack slides off my shoulder, before more yellow vomit pours out of my mouth.

My head is starting to hurt. I try to swallow, but more vomit pours out. My jaw is hanging slack as I try to catch my breath.

More vomit pours out. The sound of it hitting the yellow vomit already in the toilet makes me feel even sicker. It feels like there’s a huge brick weighing down on my Adam’s apple, but at the same time it feels like I’m about to throw it up.

More vomit pours out of my mouth. I’m starting to feel dizzy. I want this to stop. I’m done. I can’t have anymore pancake or juice in my stomach, right?

The thought of food makes me sick.
I vomit again.
I try to catch my breath.
I try to swallow, but more vomit comes up.
I feel real dizzy now.
There’s a knock on the door, which makes me jump. The dizziness is gone.

“Are you okay in there?” a soft voice asks. It sounds familiar. I cough once. I almost vomit again, but it only comes out as a muffled gag.
“Seriously, do you need help?” It’s Mikey. I can hear it now. I turn around, reach up and unlock the door. The door opens and Mikey’s head carefully appears.
“Frank,” he exclaims, before he opens the door fully and kneels down next to me.
“Are you okay, dude?” He pats my back, before he lets it lie still on my shoulder. I swallow once. I look up at Mikey and smiles weakly and pathetically.
“You wanna go home?” If I go home, my mom will force me to eat.
I shake my head.
“Do you wanna go to my house? My parents aren’t home and won’t be home until late, so they won’t know we cut class.” A smirk appears on Mikey’s lips. I’m surprised he doesn’t do that more often – just goes home instead of sitting through the torture of this place.
I smile and nod.
Mikey smiles back.
“Come on,” he says and pats my back once.